


Don't Bet on it

by Hatsepsut



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Babies, Burns, Enduring love, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Past Rape/Non-con, Postpartum Depression, Pregnancy, Psychological Trauma, Romance, Torture, a little bit of smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-20
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-02-26 09:18:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 51
Words: 157,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2646593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hatsepsut/pseuds/Hatsepsut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the men in Hawke's life make a bet among them on who would win their affection first, they set in motion a chain of events that will threaten to destroy them all; secrets come out, and their lives will never again be the same. <br/>A story of how love and maturity can grow through -and perhaps because of- suffering.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hawke in this fic is a deeply tramautised woman, with hidden secret and a deep mistrust of men... She has a lot of issues to resolve. That is why this fic starts at the beginning of Act III, after her mother has died, but she has formed no relationship with any of the LIs.  
> Varric is narrating- obviously. The end notes are his thought as he writes her story.

 

Varric shuffled the cards and cautiously looked at the three men sitting around the table. He hoped to the Maker that he wouldn’t regret this invitation, as the three males hadn’t been known for their harmonious co-existence so far. Sebastian was jovial enough, but Anders and Fenris hadn’t seen eye to eye on just about everything to date. He nearly scoffed out loud. The only thing they seemed to have in common was their fascination with Hawke. It was a lucky thing their illustrious leader hadn’t favoured any of them so far because he was certain it would cause more tension among them all.

Ahh, Hawke. What a conundrum. He had never met a more mystifying personality in his life so far. Immensely capable, a warrior without equal. She was ruthless in battle, snarky and sarcastic, more ready to fight than to negotiate. As she herself had said when he’d once suggested a more diplomatic approach to the people they dealt with, “Diplomacy is saying ‘good doggie’ until you find a rock”.

And yet Varric, with his uncanny observation skills, had often been able to glimpse a soft, romantic side to her, a secretly feminine side that just longed to come out and play. Maybe it was her smile, rare though it was, and how it transformed her into a little pigtailed girl playing at being a warrior. Maybe it was the way she often helped people because their troubles had managed to move her, although she always found ulterior motives to attribute to her own decision. It was as if she was loathe for people to notice she had a softer, more tender side. She wanted people to believe she was a practical, ruthless soldier, but Varric had seen the way she had cared for her sister and mother, and how she never failed to put herself between her friends and danger.

He had also witnessed firsthand how strong she was, how utterly unbreakable. When her sister had died in the Deep Roads, she had managed to keep herself together long enough to help ease her passing. Varric had marvelled at how she’d held her sister and made her laugh, even as the poison she had given her had started to work through Bethany’s body; at how she had refused to break down afterwards, even though the men in the party had all expected to have to deal with some kind of histrionics- some crying perhaps, or some raging and shouting.

And then, just a few weeks ago, when her mother had been murdered by that monster. Again, she had shown just how strong she was, taking time to grieve, but not a single moment to break down. She had turned them all away that night, spent a few days fasting and praying in the Chantry for her mother’s soul, Sebastian hovering in the distance. Then she was back into her normal routine, killing people, taking care of any little or big problem that arose in the city.

Hawke was a mystery to him- ruthless, cold, efficient. Caring and loving, as well, and as fiercely loyal as a mabari bitch, but keeping people at a careful distance at the same time.

He dealt the cards and concentrated on the game, the silence among his companions deafening.

“So, gentlemen,” he decided to rock the boat a bit, “I hear Hawke has flirted with all of you. Any progress? Anything Uncle Varric should know about?”

Fenris blushed and then looked to the other two with narrowed eyes.

“That is none of your business, dwarf,” he growled.

“Seconded,” Sebastian drawled. “Nobody’s business but hers.”

“She is a little tease, though, isn’t she?” Anders mumbled.

“Shut your mouth, mage,” Fenris growled at the blond human.

“Oh, come on,” Anders smiled coldly. “You mean it doesn’t bother you that she has flirted with all of us?” He quirked a brow at the way Fenris glowered at him. “I was heartbroken, honestly. I thought I was special.”

Varric laughed and so did Sebastian.

“She is a beautiful woman, and any one of us would be lucky to hold her attention,” the Prince said, trying to diffuse the tension between the elf and the mage. “But I suspect she doesn’t mean it. She even made some innocent passes at me, and she knows I have taken vows. I don’t think she is serious about it.”

“She was serious with me,” Anders bristled. “I had to be very insistent that it couldn’t work between us.”

Fenris scoffed. “As if a sensible woman like Hawke would be idiotic enough to get involved with an abomination.”

“As if a woman like Hawke would be suicidal enough to get involved with a murdering bigot like you!” Anders scoffed right back.

Sebastian sighed. He turned to Varric and nodded to the two other men.

“See what you’ve done? Next thing you know they’ll be betting on who will win her affection.”

Varric smiled at the way silence fell around the table.

“Five sovereign?” he suggested. “Whoever gets the first kiss wins. Bianca and I will referee.”

_And that was how this whole shitfest had started. In retrospect, I wish I had kept my big mouth shut. I was as much to blame as all of them. And of course she never forgot it. She forgave it eventually, but she never forgot it._

_In my defence, I didn’t know. In our defence, no one knew. The only people who could have told us, her sister, her mother, were already dead. Still, I should have never proposed that bet. I know that now._

Varric sighed and dipped his pen in the ink again.

_Isn’t hindsight a bitch?_

 


	2. Chapter 2

She woke up with a gasp and shot out of bed. The same dream, again and again, the same anguish every night. She should have been used to it by now, but it never failed to upset her, at least momentarily. She pushed her shoulders back with a sigh and straightened her spine. One day she would wake up screaming, having had too much of it. But not today. Not today.

She resolutely set about her morning routine, washing the sweat from her body with a wet washcloth. She avoided looking at herself in the mirror, moving with swiftness and with an economy of movement that showed how much of a usual occurrence waking up drenched in sweat was. She washed her face and combed her hair, the only womanly concession she made to her appearance. She never woke makeup, she never wore her hair into anything more elaborate than a braid down her back. Her clothes and armour were strictly practical and as little revealing as she could make them. Any attempts her mother had ever made to convince her to dress more womanly had been met with anger.

The thought of her mother was still painful. It hadn’t been more than a few weeks since she had lost her to that monster, and she still thought she would turn around and see her walking past her room. She could still smell her perfume lingering in the huge, empty mansion. She was totally alone now, all members of her family dead. The thought was painful, but if she was being totally honest, it was reassuring too. She was used to being alone. She liked being alone. She could still remember them all hovering around her after... after that, stifling the very air she breathed, smothering her with their concern when all she had wanted was to be left alone. She had been thinking of leaving her parents house to become an adventurer when the Blight had struck and she had to take charge to protect her family. Now, she found herself alone, and while she regretted the circumstances, she was also relieved. Did that make her a horrible person?

She quickly put on her smallclothes and then a linen tunic and leather breaches. She had perfected the art of putting on her armour and buckling up the various straps unassisted years ago, so she made quick work of it. She then picked up her huge greatsword form the weapon stand, comforted by the way the hilt of her weapon fit her hand as if it was made for it. She sheathed in its usual place at her back, the familiar weight a promise she was protected. Not taking any time to have breakfast, she left the house with a brisk gait, heading to the Hanged Man where the rest of her group awaited. Places to go, people to kill again today.

She made her way to Lowtown with a grim look on her face.

* * *

Anders was giving her funny looks all day. She turned back to him and caught him watching her again. What _was_ it with him today?

She looked down to herself and frowned. Other than the usual blotches of blood, there was nothing wrong with her armour, at least as far as she could see.

He moved near her and smiled kindly at her, his warm amber eyes lighting up. She frowned even harder. There had been a time, when she had first met him, that she had been drawn to the mage, to his gentleness and warmth. But any attempts to flirt with him, clumsy as they were, were greeted with drama. “I will hurt you, I’m not the man for you” and all that. She had been disappointed, but had managed to hide it. She had once made a deal with herself, that if she ever met a man that caught her interest she would try, she really would try. She wouldn’t let the past haunt her; she’d be stronger than that. But Anders had made it clear he wasn’t interested, so she stopped trying, with a mixture of regret and relief. Over the last few years they had kept a careful distance, Anders trying to become friends with her, but her keeping him at an arm’s length, as she did with everybody.

“Are you okay, Hawke?” he asked, noticing the way she was scowling.

“Peachy. Why?” she drawled sarcastically.

“After that tragedy with your mother...I am always here if you need to talk Hawke, you know that.”

“I know.”

“Well, do you?” he placed a hand on her shoulder. “Want to talk, I mean...”

“No, Anders. I don’t.”

Varric chuckled behind them. Anders shot him an irritated look and then turned back to Hawke.

“It is not healthy bottling everything up inside, Hawke,” he insisted. “I’m here if you need me.”

She looked over in the distance, and Anders was shocked to see the hard veneer crumble for just a second, and her face shadowed by an incredibly sad look.

“You are more right than you think, Anders,” she whispered and then graced him with one of her rare smiles, the ones that could break even an ogre’s heart in their loveliness.

“I might take you up on your offer one day,” she offered and then moved up ahead to talk to Isabela.

Anders was left looking at her, shaken to his boots, both at the vulnerability he had never been allowed to glimpse before now, and the way her face had transformed from one of a simply attractive girl to one of a stunningly beautiful woman. And all that just with a smile.

Varric patted his arm and chuckled.

“Smooth, Blondie. Well done. Round one goes to you.”

 

* * *

 

_In retrospect, I wish she had spoken to Anders that day. When we talked about it later, we all agreed that Anders would have been the best for her; he was a healer, and Hawke needed to be healed. Of course, ignorant dolts we all were, the bet was all we were thinking about, not what was best for her. I remember going home to my suite in the Hanged Man that afternoon thinking this was going to be the best fun I had had for months._

_I have no qualms admitting I am ashamed of myself now._

_Hindsight. Like I said, a bitch._


	3. Chapter 3

Fenris arrived at her house for his reading lesson later that evening. They had stopped for a few days when her mother had died, and in the end she had had to ask him why he had stopped coming over. He had mumbled that he thought she would appreciate some space and they had renewed their appointment for the following day. And he had been coming over without fail since then.

Truth be told, Fenris was the one person among their little group she felt more comfortable with, which was a contradiction in terms because Fenris was not a comfortable kind or man by any standards. He was too damaged, too emotionally scarred to ever be relaxed around other people. Maybe that was why she felt so at ease with him. She had her own emotional baggage lugging around behind her, so she could understand the invisible barriers the elven warrior had erected around him. After all, they matched hers to a T.

They settled down by the fire, a book cradled in his lap, Hawke at a distance big enough not to allow any contact but small enough so she could look over his shoulder at the text and help him with any words that might give him trouble. They both had a glass of wine in their hands, and the fire cast an orange glow on both Fenris’ white locks and her own black-as-night hair.

His soft, velvety voice was oddly soothing in the silence of the mansion, and she found herself drifting off, her mind wandering to the conversation she’d had with Anders that morning. She felt a warm feeling spread inside her. She may not have her family anymore but she had friends. Friends that apparently cared for her, that wanted to help her. Maybe, just maybe, she should think about opening up a bit and allowing them to do just that. Anders was handsome enough and kind, a caring and thoughtful man. Maybe she should give him a second chance.

She realised Fenris was looking at her and gulped down the sip of wine in her mouth.

“I’m sorry, did you say something, Fenris?” she politely said, trying to hide her slight blush.

“I asked you what this word means three times, Hawke,” he mumbled, annoyed.

“What word?” she leaned over his shoulder, trying to make out the offending piece of writing. Fenris hated not knowing something, and he resented having to ask for her help. The fact that he had had to ask three times had obviously irritated him, and he scowled before turning back to the book.

“This one,” he pointed the word out, holding the book towards her.

“Excruciate...” she whispered. “It means to cause somebody acute suffering, to torture. Maybe we should have picked something more...cheery.”

Fenris scowled. “The word does not cause me distress, Hawke. It is just a word.”

She looked into the fire, her eyes shadowed with dark memories.

“You are a stronger person than I am, then, Fenris,” she whispered. “After all, everyone has dark memories. Dredging them up is never pleasant. Is it?”

Fenris waved dismissively.

“No need walking on eggshells around me, Hawke,” he muttered, suddenly uneasy with the topic of conversation. “Maker knows, my memories are not pleasant. But I deal with them to the best of my abilities.” The corner of his mouth quirked up sarcastically. “Killing helps.”

She bit her lip and hesitated before asking the next question. If there was one person in this world that had the potential to understand her, that was probably Fenris. And she was not the person to mull her decisions over and over in her mind. Decisions should be acted upon, sooner better than later. Time to try to open up.

“Do you ever have nightmares, Fenris?” she asked, her voice unusually small and timid. _Easier said than done_ , she thought.

Fenris visually recoiled at the question. It was too personal, and too close to the emotions he tried so desperately to keep in check.

“I don’t see why that is your concern Hawke.”

“Because...I do. Have nightmares. All the time. Ever since I was fifteen years old,” she replied, her gaze fixed on the blazing fire opposite her. She held her breath, waiting for his question. If he asked her what the nightmares were about, she would tell him, no matter how painful it would be. She closed her eyes, and prepared herself, praying that he would ask her and that he wouldn’t as well.

Fenris huffed. “What about? The crop not being good enough? Maybe a farmer’s son that didn’t return your interest and broke your heart? Do not compare your troubles to mine Hawke. You have no idea what I have gone through.”

She clenched her eyes and her fists against the sudden wave of disappointment that went through her at his dismissive words. Yes, how could her pain compare to his? How could she possibly know what he had gone through? How dare she compare herself to him?

Stupid, arrogant elf. Even his pain had to be better than anyone else’s. She would get no sympathy, no understanding here. _Scratch Fenris_ , she thought. _He is too self-absorbed in his own misery to even suspect mine_ , _much less share it, or care about it_.

“I think...I think you should leave now, Fenris,” she said and opened her eyes, drawing deep, steady breaths to try and calm her nerves and her temper, to bring herself under check again, so that her disappointment wouldn’t show. “I am rather tired.”

Fenris recoiled as if she had struck him and realised for the first time that Hawke had been trying to tell him something. He felt shame at talking down to her like this. Whatever it was, however small and insignificant, he should have listened. Hawke was always there to listen to him. Turning her words around in his brain, he grasped, too late, that she had been trying to confide something in him, that she hadn’t been prying.

He took in the way she looked then, and realised he had upset her. For a moment he thought he saw tears glistening in her eyes but dismissed it as a trick of the firelight flickering in the room. Hawke did not cry. She simply didn’t do tears. She wasn’t the kind of women that indulged in such weakness. Even so, he could tell he had caused her some kind of distress.

“Hawke, I...I,” he stuttered, trying to apologise, but she gave him no chance.

She got up and walked to the door and held it open for him, her whole posture cold and unresponsive. She wasn’t going to hear to any apologies. His heart sank. Not that he was so interested in the bet, or that he longed to win her over so much (what would he do with her if he had her?), but the idea of that smug priest or that thrice-damned abomination succeeding where he couldn’t was abhorrent.

He walked through the door and took a look back at her, her stiff shoulders and her ramrod-straight back. She avoided his eyes and shut the door behind him with a bang.

Fenris wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard a sigh behind the closed door. Or was it a sob?

No, it couldn’t be. Hawke never cried. She was too strong for that.

He left, promising himself he would apologise the following day and ask her with real concern what her nightmares were about. She wouldn’t probably tell him, but he owed it to himself to try.

He was going to win that bet even if it killed him.

 

* * *

 

Varric run a hand through his silver hair and sighed. The last book he was ever going to write and it had to be about this. True, it wasn’t what his readers were used to. First off, it was nothing but the truth and that alone was nearly a perversion on its own for him. Second, it was a dark and sorry tale, far from the usual heroic tales he usually wrote. But he owed it to Hawke to get it out there. His material had been painstakingly gathered over long years of conversations and over many mugs of ale. Hawke’s own journals had come into his hands after she had died, and he had spend many sleepless nights after reading them.

He looked out the window and gripped his pen with new determination. The truth hurt, especially his own involvement in it. But he would tell it, even if it killed him.

 _Fenris was a fool that night_ , he wrote. _A blighted fool, he could have won her if he hadn’t been so thickheaded. That damned bet be blasted, he could have helped her, too. But, trust that insensitive, self-absorbed, broody bastard to completely botch things up._

_Trust all of us to completely botch things up._

_From what I gathered from her journal, that had been the worst night she had ever had, the nightmares especially vivid and gruesome. She had written that she had woken up screaming and brought the whole household to her room. And that is where the Choir Boy came in, finding her in an especially vulnerable state the next morning; perceptive as he was, he used it to his advantage._

_To win the bet, of course, it was all to win the bet._

_Ah, nug shit..._

 


	4. Chapter 4

Sebastian banged on the door of the Amell estate early in the morning, and was greeted at the door by a red-eyed and worried Bodahn. The ex-prince looked at the dwarf with an uneasy feeling spreading inside him. It became a downright apprehensive feeling when Bodahn not only didn’t show him in, but barred the entrance with his body.

“I am sorry messere, but I don’t think it is a good day for visits. Messere Hawke is not feeling very well.”

Sebastian tried to peek over the dwarf’s head. The whole estate was dark, as if the servants hadn’t bothered to draw the heavy curtains this morning.

“What is wrong, Bodahn? Is she sick?”

The dwarf cast a worried look over his shoulder and then silently slipped outside, drawing the door behind him until it was open just a crack.

“I don’t rightly know, messere,” he lowered his voice, continuing to cast worried looks over his shoulder. “We heard her screaming in the middle of the night, and when we went to check up on her, she was extremely upset. She said it was a nightmare, but she isn’t herself this morning.”

The dwarf twisted his hands worriedly in front of him and looked at Sebastian with a pleading look in his eyes.

“Do you think you might be able to talk to her?” he asked. “I am really worried about her. She just sits there and doesn’t speak to any of us. She was fine last night, before messere Fenris left.”

Sebastian’s brow creased with worry. What had the blasted elf done to upset her so?

“Let me talk to her, Bodahn,” he determinedly said and pushed past the servant. “I’ll find a way to cheer her up, don’t worry.”

Bodahn led him to the study, where Hawke was sitting in a high-backed armchair, facing the fireplace, although there was no fire burning. She was contemplating the ashes as if the meaning of life could be found in them and her beautiful face was twisted in a scowl.

“Good morning, Hawke,” he said with fake cheerfulness as he approached her.

His heavy brogue snapped her out of her pensive thoughts and she looked at him in annoyance.

“Bodahn!” she shouted. “I thought I told you I didn’t want to be disturbed!”

Sebastian chuckled, unperturbed by her anger.

“Not very polite of you Hawke,” he drawled and chuckled as she blushed slightly. “After all, you had invited me, remember?”

A puzzled expression replaced her annoyed scowl for a moment and Sebastian smiled.

“The party that noble has invited you too...” he reminded her. “I was supposed to help you prepare, remember? We were supposed to go together.”

Hawke nodded, understanding dawning in her eyes. That blasted party. She had received the invitation weeks ago and since Sebastian was going too, he had suggested going together. Then her mother had been murdered and she had completely forgotten about it. But apparently the Prince hadn’t.

“I don’t think I will go, considering what has happened since. But thanks you,” she belatedly remembered her manners. “I am sorry for the reception Sebastian, but I had a hard night and I am rather tired.”

“Nonsense. You are going. It will do you no good sitting alone in here all day, coming out only to go on missions. Your mother would have wanted you to go,” Sebastian said forcefully and then grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet. She was left looking at him, surprised at his persistence and forcefulness, mouth agape. Sebastian hadn’t shown any signs of being so eager to take charge before. It was refreshing.

He pushed the pitch black tendrils of hair that had escaped her braid out of her eyes and smiled warmly at her.

“Now go get dressed, sweetling,” he murmured, and that deep Starkhaven brogue sent a shiver down her spine. “I’m taking you shopping.”

* * *

Shopping was for girls. Girly girls, that fawned and squealed and swooned over silk dresses and ribbon laced bodices. She had trouble telling silk from cotton and all she knew about formal dresses was that they were supposed to be long. So what was the fuss with the shoes, anyway? They wouldn’t be visible under the skirt after all.

She sighed again and scowled at the shopkeeper that had thrust rows and rows of brightly coloured dresses her way. No way she was wearing anything like that! She would look ridiculous in them, a hawk playing at being a peacock. Sebastian looked right in his element though, sorting through the dresses with an experienced eye.

“How do you know so much about dresses anyway?” she mumbled, annoyed at her ignorance.

“I had sisters,” Sebastian explained, a sad look coming over his eyes. “Dresses and accessories were the only topics of conversation around them. Whether I wanted it or not, some information seeped in.”

“I am sorry for your loss, Sebastian,” she laid a hand on his forearm. “I know what it’s like to lose all your family.”

He took her hand and brought it to his lips, a graceful smile twisting his sensuous mouth.

“Thank you, Hawke,” he smiled at her and she was surprised at the warmth that spread inside her, both at the appreciative look in his eyes and the feeling of his lips on her skin. It was so sad that a man like Sebastian had given himself to the Maker. There was a woman out there, not her, but someone, that would have been made extremely happy by having this man in her life.

Sebastian turned back to the three or four dresses he had selected for her. He held a pink one up and looked her over with a critical eye.

“Somehow, I don’t see you in pink...” he commented.

“No shit. What was your first clue?” she drawled sarcastically.

The shopkeeper gasped and Sebastian tried to give her a stern look, but a smile was playing on his lips.

He selected a dark blue dress, with a sweeping skirt and a sleeveless bodice, and looked her over again.

“This one, I think,” he said.

She stood watching him.

“Well?” he gestured to the back of the shop. “Go try it on.”

She gathered the dress to her and stomped to the back of the shop, grumbling, but secretly charmed with him and his desire to help her. Her mother would have made her wear every frilly pink creation in the shop and try to convince her to wear ribbons in her hair. Ribbons. For the sake of the Maker!

She slipped into the dress. It fir her like a second skin and she was stunned at the picture she presented in the full body mirror. She turned around, unable to believe the feminine woman in the mirror was her. She had curves, and they looked quite good if she could say so herself. The dark blue of the dress brought out her feline eyes and the paleness of her skin and the sleeveless bodice accentuated her creamy shoulders, her long neck and the top of her full breasts...oh...no. It would never do.

She trailed her fingers over the bite shaped scar on the top of her breast and nearly started bawling. The first dress she had ever loved and she could never wear it. What had she been thinking? She took the dress off with a sigh, and put on her tunic and leather leggings without looking at herself in the mirror anymore.

Sebastian had an expectant look on his face as she left the dressing room and was surprised to see her in her normal clothes. He scowled as he took in her look, her carefully blank expression that tried to mask her disappointment and failed. He didn’t understand what had gone wrong. He had been sure the dress would be wonderful on her.

She left the garment on the counter and tried to smile at the shopkeeper.

“Do you have something...more closed on top? Maybe with a higher neck?” she asked and Sebastian was certain she was near tears. She run her fingers longingly on the blue silk as the shop keeper rushed to find her another dress and approached her warily.

“I don’t understand, Hawke,” he gently told her. “If you like it, and you do, I can tell, why not wear it?”

Her shoulders tensed and she sighed.

“I have a scar,” she admitted, her head bowed. She pointed to the top of her round, high breast. “Here. It looks horrible, and I...”

Sebastian laid a hand on her shoulder and hooked a finger under her chin, raising her face so he could look in her eyes. This vulnerable, timid Hawke was adorable. He smiled into her eyes and drew her into his embrace. Somehow, she didn’t draw away, or snap at him, but went into his arms as if she belonged there and allowed him to cradle her head on his shoulder and run his fingers through her hair.

“It’s okay, sweetling,” he crooned at her, delighted that she accepted the comfort he offered her. “We’ll find something else. There is a perfect dress for a bonny young lass like you somewhere in here.”

She drew back and looked up at him and a bright, grateful smile lit up her face. Sebastian drew in a breath and held it, amazed at the way that smile transformed her already beautiful face into that of a goddess.

The shopkeeper returned with a few more dresses, and they pulled away from each other, a blush painting both their faces.

“You should smile more often, Hawke,” Sebastian drawled, his voice a bit hoarse. “It suits you.”

She turned back to him on her way to the dressing room, and her eyes twinkled with excitement.

“Make me...” she challenged him before disappearing behind the curtain.

He pumped his fist in the air as soon as she was inside. The others didn’t stand a chance. He would win that bet, it was almost certain.

 

* * *

 

_All I will say is this:_

_Crap._

_And this:_

_Bastard._

_I stopped liking Choir Boy after that._

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Hawke returned home, almost smiling to herself. She had found the perfect dress with Sebastian’s help, with the cutest pair of shoes to go with it. She scowled. Look at herself, one time shopping and already fawning over shoes like the stupid girls she despised do much!

She settled down in her favourite armchair to think. Sebastian had been great with her, making her smile and laugh, his behaviour allowing her to feel comfortable enough to act like a girl without feeling embarrassed. She recalled the moment when he had bent down to help tie the laces of her shoes and his fingers had trailed up her calf, making her entire body tense and tingle. It was too bad he was a sworn brother of the Chantry, because it was the first time she had felt her body respond to a man’s touch. The feeling had been...exciting and exhilarating. And oh, so frightening at the same time.

She sighed, and run a hand through her loose hair. She could still remember the hot look in his eyes when she had undone her braid to see how her new dress would look with her hair down. He had seemed to be out of breath momentarily, and if she was being honest with herself, it had made her womanly confidence soar.

She was jerked out of her thoughts by the sound of the door being knocked. She knew Bodahn was out shopping with Oranna and Sandal, so she grudgingly moved to the door to answer it. She didn’t want to talk to anybody. She wanted time to decipher the delicious feelings going through her, to savour and relish the first taste of womanly power over a handsome man she’d ever had.

She opened the door and Fenris was standing there, his eyes downcast. He lifted his face to look at her and Hawke saw him draw in a surprised breath. His eyes were as big as saucers and his pupils visibly expanded to almost all black, with only a pale green ring around them. His hand came up almost on its own and he touched a tendril of her hair before he visibly tried to collect himself.

Hawke fought the urge to smile smugly. Had she know she could bring the men in her little band to their knees just by letting her hair loose, she might have done it ages ago. She remembered how he had upset her the night before, though, and her eyes narrowed and her expression hardened. He had no right. He had not earned the right to touch her. She pulled back and watched as he blushed, embarrassed at his unprecedented loss of control. He coughed nervously and his eyes turned away, then dropped to the ground in front of him again.

“I have come to apologise,” he muttered. “I understand my careless words yesterday caused you distress. I am sorry.”

She folded her arms against her chest.

“You have a pretty big idea about yourself, Fenris,” she huffed.

“I met Bodahn at the market. He told me you had gone shopping with Sebastian. After he told me that you had been upset after I left. A bad dream, apparently?”

“Yes,” she scoffed sarcastically. “I dreamt that the entire turnip crop in Ferelden had been destroyed. I woke up screaming.”

The corner of his mouth turned up ever so slightly. Fenris was the only one who appreciated her sarcastic humour. Perhaps because it matched his.

“Perish the thought,” he drawled. “But I know I upset you, Hawke. I spoke thoughtlessly and dismissed your feelings. Will you not accept my apology?”

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and regarded him coldly. She had never had such vivid dreams like she had had the previous night, and it’d all been because of him. But he had lost the chance to be the one she confided in, and Hawke did not give second chances lightly.

“I might. In time,” she reluctantly conceded. “You are being awfully nice all of the sudden, Fenris. Why is that?”

He huffed, irritated, and looked behind him to the street, where a few nobles were passing by and casting curious glances their way.

“Must we speak at the door, Hawke?” he asked. “Will you not invite me in?”

“No, I won't,” she dismissed him with a casual tone, as casual as he had used to dismiss her last night. “Speak your piece here in the street, Fenris, or go home. You are ruining my mood, and it was quite good before you showed up.”

He stood staring at her, not finding the words to ask her what the nightmares were about. She wasn’t going to tell him anyhow, if her anger and defensiveness were any indication. Then her words fully registered and he realised her mood had been good because she’d obviously had a good time with the priest. He narrowed his eyes and tensed, his pride prickling him. He wasn’t going to lose to that damned smug ex-prince. He contemplated giving her some hint of why Sebastian had suddenly shown such an interest in her, but he would be damning his own self too.

“Fine, then, Hawke.” He decided backing down until she had forgiven him was best. “I will ask for your forgiveness again, and I will go.” He bowed his head to her and turned around to leave, but her voice stopped him.

“Apology accepted. Don’t do it again.”

And she banged the door behind her.

He smiled at the closed door. She like to pretend she was this tough and unforgiving warrior, but he could see she had a soft heart underneath the hard veneer she presented to the world. He would use that to win her, use her hidden tender feelings. He suspected it wouldn’t take more than a few pained tales from his past to make her soft heart bleed for him. Stealing a kiss would then be a piece of cake.

He felt shame just for an instance; he had willingly and rather eagerly joined in a game that played with a woman’s feelings, a woman he had the utmost respect for. But Hawke was tough. She wouldn’t find out about the bet, and even if she did she would probably just be a bit angry for a few days. Then she would make a sarcastic comment and move on.

* * *

That night at the Hanged Man, Hawke first realised she might be starting to have feelings for Sebastian when she walked through the door and was choked by a wave a disappointment as he wasn’t among the crowd of friends gathered around their usual table.

She composed herself, promising she would think about it later, and sat down next to Anders, who gave her a warm smile.

“What are you playing?” she asked Varric, who was busy trying to decipher the elf’s unreadable expression. Fenris was a master at hiding his thoughts and feelings.

“Diamondback, what else?” Fenris replied, not taking his eyes off Varric for even a second, knowing full well that was all it took for the dwarf to cheat.

Isabela sauntered over to them and plopped down on the bench next to her.

“I heard you and Sebastian went shopping today, Hawke,” she drawled. “What did you buy? Rosaries?”

“A dress, actually,” Hawke said and scowled at the surprised look on the pirate’s face, that nearly choked on her drink.

She looked around the tables, at the shocked faces of her companions.

“What?” she huffed irritably. “Cant I buy a dress? I am a woman after all, and I have a ball to attend to.”

“I’d love to accompany you, Hawke, if you don’t have a date already,” Anders was quick to offer and she gave him one of her little smiles, the corner of her lips just barely quirking up. Fenris mentally kicked himself for not having the presence of mind to beat him to it and scowled as he pretended to pore over the cards in his hand.

“Thank you, Anders, but that won’t be necessary. Sebastian will come with me, we had arranged it ever since I’d gotten the invitation.”

Varric noted with a slight smile how the expression on the faces of the two males dropped at that. Prince one, elf nought, mage zilch, he thought.

 

* * *

 

_It just occurred to me, that they were all secretly pining for Hawke. The bet gave them all the excuse to go after her, and I am sure they all used it as an smoke screen they hid behind, so as not to admit it to their own selves how taken they were with her._

_Then again, I may be wrong, and they all were self absorbed pricks that cared for nothing other than winning. They were certainly all quite broken up over it after she found out, but hey, every crook is upset after being caught. That doesn’t mean shit._

_I am not forgetting my own part in this, trust me. Need I mention that I never bet on anything again? Yep, that was my last one. And, mind you, I was the kind of person that would be willing to bet the sun might come up green the other day. If there was a bet offered, I took it. If there wasn’t, I offered it myself. But it has been more than forty years since then, and I have never bet on anything. Was it because of guilt?_

_You bet on it._


	6. Chapter 6

Hawke sat looking at herself in the mirror, mildly annoyed with Isabela that was hovering around her. As soon as she’d learned about the party, she had offered Hawke her services, and had spent the afternoon at her house, doing her hair and making up her face.

Hawke hated all those girly practices, hated them with conviction, because she had no idea how to do them, much less how to indulge in them. She had been tense as a wooden board, huddling in her robe while Isabela dealt with her extremely long hair. She had hated the result and made Isabela undo the elaborate twist she had constructed on top of her head. She’d much rather go in her usual braid but Isabela had gasped and protested when she had mentioned it. In the end, they had both settled with loose hair down her back, only held up at the sides with ivory combs that contradicted beautifully with the sooty blackness of her hair.

Isabela was applying makeup on her face now, and Hawke scowled at the brushes and paints she had amassed on her dresser.

“I hope to the Maker you won’t make me look like a clown, Isabela,” she muttered. “I will skin you alive, mark my words.”

Isabela sighed and straightened the crease among Hawke’s brows with her fingers.

“Don’t scowl, Hawke,” she protested. “You lovely face will get stuck that way.”

“Just make sure it isn’t too much,” she grumbled. “I hate makeup.”

“Don’t worry,” Isabela crooned. “I will make you look fabulous for your bonny Prince, Hawke.”

Hawke immediately tensed. “He is not mine. He is a sworn brother of the Chantry. He has taken vows.”

“Ahh, but don’t you wish he hadn’t?” Isabela’s voice took on a dreamy quality. “All that hard, muscular body, those strong, rough hands...those slim hips. Perfect to hang on to while he bangs you. What a waste...I bet he could make a woman cream her smalls just by kissing her.”

Hawke blushed and squirmed. Isabela’s description was very much like the dream she ‘d had last night. She scowled again. The first night in ages she hadn’t had nightmares and she’d had a hot, steamy dream instead, that had left her even more bothered and disturbed. It was wrong having such desires anyway. Sebastian was a friend, and he had sworn vows to the Maker. Even if he was interested in her the same way, she would never allow herself to be the reason he forswore his vows. The thought alone made her feel extremely guilty and upset. She believed in the Maker, and she respected the people that dedicated their lives to Him.

Isabela was watching her, she realised with a start. She was watching her with a knowing, lewd smile on her face.

“What?” she spat.

“You are falling for the Prince.” Isabela commented, her smile growing larger.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hawke stubbornly insisted.

“Suuurre,” Isabela drawled. “Deny it if you must. I know that dreamy look, Hawke, you are lusting over him...good choice, if I may say so myself, that seems to be one _fine_ cock tenting his breaches.”

“ISABELA!” she shouted, horrified both at her friend’s words and the images they brought on in her mind. It was strange, but that part of a man’s anatomy was not something that brought on warm tingly feelings in her body before...the feelings she usually got were disgust and fear. She blushed to the roots of her hair and Isabela shot her a questioning look.

“You are blushing like a virgin, Hawke,” Isabela thoughtfully said, obviously perplexed. Hawke had never been so bashful before, she usually retorted with a sarcastic jibe to her lewd comments, so why was she behaving like that now? “Don’t tell me you are one?”

A corner of Hawke’s mouth went up, in a sarcastic and cynical smile.

“Hardly,” she drawled and her eyes hardened. “Get on with your job, Isabela.”

Isabela sighed, failing to understand what had set her friend off again. She shrugged and continued applying the makeup. Hawke was like that, a mystery, none of her companions really knew anything but sketchy details about her. She knew she had a good heart underneath the gruffness and she knew she was somebody she could always rely on. She had, of course, flirted with her when they had first met, but Hawke hadn’t been interested. She hadn’t really been interested in anyone, and Isabela realised this was the first time she had caught her friend even remotely flustered over somebody, male or female.

Isabela smiled to herself. Hawke was a good person, a good friend, and she had gone through a lot. She deserved some happiness, and she wished with all her soul Sebastian would give it to her.

* * *

Sebastian arrived just on time to escort her to the party and she gathered up her skirts to go down the stairs. The high heels felt wobbly and she kept her eyes firmly on her feet, dreading that she would take a tumble down the stairs and make a fool out of herself. What did she know about high heels and long skirts anyway?

At least Isabela had been true to her word, and the makeup didn’t look hideous on her face. Far from it. Even she had conceded that it made her look fantastic, making Isabela smile brightly. The dark shadow around her eyes brought out the glimmering, cat-like chartreuse of her eyes, adding a mysterious and enchanting quality to her gaze. Her already alabaster skin glowed and her lips were red and moist, begging to be kissed. _Not that he wanted anyone to kiss her, of course_ , she quickly dismissed the thought and shook her head to clear it.

The fact that she kept all her attention on her feet as she was going down the stairs didn’t let her see Sebastian do a double take, or his jaw drop; nor did she hear the small gasp that escaped him at her sight. She would surely have felt much more certain of herself and her appearance if she had seen how shaken Sebastian had been, and the warm look of male appreciation in his eyes. She made her way down the stairs and stood awkwardly in front of him, half-dreading he would soon burst into laughter and tell her she looked like a fool.

 _Maker_ , Sebastian thought, _she looks divine_! His eyes trailed over her body in the tight-fitting silk dress, in a pale ivory colour. Every womanly curve that was normally hidden under heavy armour now more than visible. _Maker, that dress fits her like a second skin_! He felt instant hot arousal, all his blood trailing south and making him shift his stance uncomfortably, trying desperately to hide the fact that just the sight of her in that dress made him harden and ache. She raised her eyes to his and he struggled not to gasp again. He didn’t know if it was the makeup or that soft, expectant look on her face but his heart fluttered in his chest, and he had trouble drawing breath.

“Sebastian,” she gave him a small, uncertain smile waiting for his reaction, and he pulled himself together and bowed down to her, taking her hand in his and raising it to his lips. He couldn’t resist laying a more intimate kiss on her skin than what was considered acceptable in polite company. He glanced up to her, catching the small shiver that went through her at the small contact and nearly smiled to himself. She was his. He had won. Now all he had to do was claim his kiss. Maker, he wanted to kiss her now, her moist red lips drawing him like a magnet, but he resisted the urge. Later. He would get his kiss when he brought her home, and then leave, to avoid the temptation to take things further. She might be a desirable woman, and his body certainly seemed to react to her, but he was a sworn brother of the faith. One little kiss wouldn’t break his vows, but that was it, he had no intention of taking it further.

He felt a moment of shame for playing with her affection like that- and Sebastian was sure there was affection on her part- but then he dismissed the thought. Hawke was too level-headed and practical to let herself get seriously interested on him, anyway. She knew he had been trying for ages to get Elthina to let him renew his vows and she had even encouraged him to keep trying. No way she was looking into a relationship with him now, she was probably just giving in to some harmless flirting with him, just to have some fun. He would oblige, win his bet, and then continue to be her friend. It was a win-win situation.

“Maker’ breath, Hawke, you look amazing!” he drawled as he straightened and gave her a smile. She sighed, relieved, and smiled brightly up to him, making his breath hitch again. Maker and sweet Andraste, that smile! It was one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen!

He put his hand at the small of her back, leading her the door and caught a small shiver that run through her once again. He smiled to himself, his male ego stroked by the reaction she was having to him, and led her to the door.

“Shall we?”

She nodded and hesitated just barely before she stepped over the threshold. The night seemed intimidating- this new experience, going out with a man, even more so. But she was with Sebastian, and she trusted him. Taking a deep breath, she gathered her courage and followed him out in the cool evening air.

 

* * *

 

_My poor, brave Hawke...going over her fear and uncertainty to go out with Sebastian, to actually trust a man after what those bastards had done to her... My heart aches at the thought._

_Isabela was the only one that had realised something was wrong, but even she hadn’t paid much attention to the subtle signals Hawke was sending. And although she betrayed her later, when this whole snafu came into the light, the Rivaini was probably the first person that stood next to her and really helped her._

_Damned pirate bitch, I really miss her! She was a sweetheart when she wanted to!_


	7. Chapter 7

On the way to the ball, at one of the most opulent mansions of the Hightown district, Hawke tried to pull herself together and stop trembling whenever Sebastian put his hand on the small of her back to guide her. She had to stop behaving like a scared little girl; this was Sebastian, her friend, a man she really admired and was even attracted to. He wasn’t leading her to some dark corner to take advantage of her, he was leading her to a well-lit, opulent mansion, filled with crowds of people milling around. She was safe. She was safe. It became like a mantra as she was walking there. _You are safe. Stop worrying, you are safe_ , she kept telling herself, but the small tremors running down her spine whenever his body came too close bellied the thought and didn’t let her relax.

Once there, the host greeted them warmly and a servant showed them to the internal courtyard where the party was being hosted. It was a beautiful rose garden, the scent of the blooming flowers and the little oil lamps and torches making it into a mystical, romantic retreat. If it weren’t for the haughty people milling around and sipping expensive wine, she would have thought she was lost in a fairytale garden, one like those in the stories her father used to read to her when she was a child.

Sebastian gave her a glass of wine and she nodded in thanks, taking in the beautiful people, the extravagant dresses and the overdone hairdos of the other women there. In comparison her dress was almost plain, and her hair was almost unmade. But there were many masculine glances towards her, some appreciative, some admiring and some downright lewd. She moved closer to Sebastian and shivered, feeling completely and utterly intimidated, wishing for the reassuring weight of her sword on her back, drawing comfort on the presence of her escort.

“Fenris is here,” she heard Sebastian gasp in surprise and she followed his eyes to see the elf, slumped against a wall in the corner, half in shadow, scowling at them. “What is he doing here? I don’t think he was invited!” Sebastian nearly growled and Hawke looked at him in surprise. Sebastian hadn’t been prone to haughtiness, but he seemed downright annoyed at Fenris’ presence. She frowned and looked over at the elf again that gave them a slight nod, making Sebastian huff.

“Let’s find out, shall we?” she asked and moved towards the elf with determined strides. Sebastian made a move to stop her but she was too fast for him and he was left staring after her in increasing annoyance. What was that damned elf doing here? How had he gotten in the party? He was certain he had come to ruin his chance of winning and his brilliant blue eyes narrowed with anger. He could try, but Hawke was his. She had shivered under his touch on the way there, she had clung to his side when men gave her interested looks, she had sent him all the right signals.

Hawke stood in front of the elf and quirked her head to the side, taking in the fact he was dressed in a formal guard attire, a noble’s emblem across his chest, and wearing boots.

“Hawke,” he used her name to greet her and a slight nod.

“Hello, Fenris,” she nodded back. “Not your usual haunt, is it?”

His lip quirked up slightly.

“Not yours either, Hawke.”

“So true,” she returned the smirk. “What are you doing here?”

“My duty,” he pointed her to a noble nearby. “I am a hired bodyguard for the night.”

She quirked an eyebrow and looked over to the noble fop that was busy chatting up a rather bored looking young noble girl.

“I never thought you would willingly put yourself in the position of a bodyguard again, Fenris...” she muttered and watched in fascination as his high cheekbones turned pink in embarrassment.

“I...I wanted to keep an eye on you Hawke,” he unwillingly admitted. “I don’t trust that priest.”

Her eyes lit up and her lips slowly curved into a brilliant smile, one that made him miss his next heartbeat.

“Thank you, Fenris,” she whispered, and nodding again, she returned to the side of a seething Sebastian.

She quickly explained that Fenris was here on a job, but the Prince didn’t look too convinced. He held the elf’s eyes for a moment, while Hawke was busy selecting a canapé from a tray a servant had presented her with, and smiled wickedly before mouthing “I won”. The elf’s lips curled in contempt, his fists tightened and he mouthed back “We shall see”.

* * *

Anders stood outside Hawke’s house, lost in thought. Justice didn’t approve of the bet. He had been raging in his mind that it wasn’t fair to treat Hawke like that, and after some thought, he had agreed. He was here tonight to tell her everything, but she had gone to that damned party with the priest.

Damn Justice, but he had wanted to win that bet. It wasn’t right, he knew, it wasn’t moral, it wasn’t the way a man was supposed to treat a woman, but he had wanted to win that bet. He had wanted to kiss her for so long, ever since he had first met her and she had flirted a bit with him. He had pushed her away, not wanting her to associate herself with him, a man bonded with a spirit, given to his cause body and soul. However, the bet had made him seen that he had wanted her ever since. Justice didn’t approve of that either, but then again there were very few things that didn’t have to do with their quest to free the mages that Justice really agreed on.

And that blasted elf and that smug ex-prince! None of them cared for Hawke the way he did! By all rights, Hawke should be his. He had seen her first! He shook his head, realizing he sounded like a five year old boy throwing a tantrum over a new toy, but the truth was he considered Hawke his. Andraste’s cuticles, she would have been his if he hadn’t pushed her away! What right did those jackasses have putting a claim on her?

He started pacing in front of her door, fuming, while Justice raged his disapproval in his head. For once he was determined to ignore him. He would wait here for Hawke, tell her about the bet, and then tell her he wanted another chance to continue what had almost started between them years ago.

* * *

Sebastian kept passing her glasses of wine all night, smiling secretly to himself because her eyes took on a sultry look as she started relaxing under the influence of the alcohol. Her smile graced her face and she leaned into him more and more often. He shot a look to the elf and saw he was busy with his duty, the noble that had hired him having stupidly gotten himself into a tiff with a another noble.

He took the opportunity to drag Hawke away to a secluded corner while she giggled in a very un-typically Hawke fashion and pushed her gently against the wall.

Her eyes shot wide as his mouth descended on hers and she struggled wildly, panic rising inside her, before she registered his addictive taste and the way his lips on hers made her almost dizzy with a sudden wave of desire. She surrendered to the feeling with a surprised gasp, opening her mouth under his, welcoming his tongue into her mouth with a small moan. Sebastian pulled back just slightly and looked deeply into her eyes, before he captured her mouth again, his hands coming to tangle in her midnight black hair.

Hawke just melted. She had never imagined a man’s kiss would make her feel like this, all warm and tingly inside. Happiness spread through her, reaching down to her toes. She could still be a woman, she could still let herself be held and kissed and loved. She had just needed the right man to show her how wonderful it was to let herself really be a woman. She wrapped her arms around his head and deepened the kiss herself, nibbling on his lip. It drove Sebastian wild, and he groaned and pulled her to him, his thigh pushing between her own.

Hawke gasped and pushed him away, blushing furiously, belatedly remembering where they were, and the fact that Sebastian had taken vows and she shouldn’t be leading him on like this.

“I am sorry, Sebastian, I got carried away,” she breathlessly stopped him when he leaned down to kiss her again, his eyes darkened by desire. “Your vows... we can’t let this continue.”

“I’d gladly break them for you, Hawke,” he sighed, his fingers trailing down her creamy throat. “You are worth it.”

They heard a throat being cleared behind them and both jumped apart to see a furious Fenris, looming over them.

“Get your hands off her, Sebastian,” the elf said in a silky, threatening voice, his green eyes shooting lightning at the prince.

“Fenris, this is none of your business!” she blushed even more furiously and stepped between the two men that suddenly seemed ready to beat each other to death.

“It is, Hawke.”

“No, it isn’t. You have no saying in who I kiss, now cut it out!”   she hissed and Fenris stepped back and gave her a dark look, before turning around and walking away.

Sebastian walked Hawke back to her home, holding her hand all the way, although she protested that it wasn’t proper. She was deliriously happy though, and Sebastian was amazed at the chance that had come over her. Her face was radiant, her soft smile making her usually hard expression disappear. Her eyes were sparkling and she had an unusually feminine sway to her luscious hips.

 _Wow_ , Sebastian thought, enthralled by her beauty and grace, _we should dress her up and get her tipsy more often._

They found Anders waiting for them. The blond mage took one look at their interlinked hands, another at Sebastian’s smug look, and mumbled an excuse and left. He turned back and his eyes roamed over Hawke longingly before leaving, Maker, she was so beautiful tonight, her face so happy, so relaxed!

He quicken his step, but instead of going to his clinic, he went to the Hanged Man. The damned priest was sure to come and collect his earnings and gloat over his victory. Anders, however, wasn’t so sure the Prince knew exactly how precious what he had won was.

* * *

When Sebastian walked into Varric’s private suite, still dressed in his regal attire from the party, he was met with one glowering mage, one brooding elf and one smirking dwarf. He laughed and sat at the table, crossing his legs and leaning back with a smug, self-satisfied look.

“Pay up, gentlemen,” he said. “You have been bested.”

“So, it is true, then?” Varric smiled. “You got your kiss?”

Sebastian gave a lewd smile. “Fenris here was there, he can testify to the truth of my claim. She let me kiss her, and she enjoyed it immensely, if her reactions were anything to go by.”

The other two turned to Fenris who hung his head and without speaking took five sovereign out of his pouch and tossed them on the table.

Anders added three coins to the pile and gave a shrug at Sebastian’s questioning look. “I’m good for it, I just need to collect some money for the potions I sold a few days ago. Don’t worry, Prince, you’ll get your damned money.”

Varric tossed five coins on the table too. “I had bet on Fenris winning,” he explained. “So tell us Choir Boy, how was she? Does she kiss like she fights?”

“She is hotter than she seems, that’s all I will say..” Sebastian replied, his smirk getting wider at the dark look of indignation the mage and the elf shot him.

Varric chuckled and patted Sebastian’s back. “Smooth moves, Choir Boy,” he whistled. “I thought Fenris would win, but I understand he kicked his chance away.”

The elf had confided about their little fight to Varric, upset about it afterwards, and the dwarf was obviously enjoying rubbing it in. He chuckled again as Fenris gave a low growl in warning.

“Would you like a side of epic with that fail, Broody?” he asked the taciturn elf, and chuckled again at the menacing glance he shot him.

“So,” Anders piped in, “now that you got her, what are you going to do with her? Forsake your vows and the Chantry after all the sermons you have been giving us? Or give her the old ‘sorry, I changed my mind’ spiel?"

Sebastian was ready to reply when a small sound behind him, something suspiciously like a gasp, drew his attention.

They all turned back together, and there in the doorway stood Hawke, still in her beautiful ivory dress, only that her face was much, much paler that the fabric. She had a stricken look and her eyes were unusually bright.

“This was a bet?” her voice was ghostly thin, but sounded as loud as a bell in the silence that had fallen in the room as four males looked at her with horror dawning on their eyes. “A bet? You all ...bet on me?”

Her voice was increasing in volume, until it had reached fever pitch, until she sounded almost hysterical. Isabela rushed in the room, obviously alarmed, her daggers drawn. It took one look at Hawke’s face for the hair on her arms to stand up. Something was seriously wrong here.

“What did you do?” she hissed at the men.

“They bet on me. They bet who would win me. Sebastian won.” Hawke explained, coldness coming over her and chilling her soul, her face, her expression and her body. She used it to bring herself under control again, so she wouldn’t start bawling on the floor.

She started laughing, a cold, mirthless laugh, one that chilled them more than any amount of screaming in rage could ever have. Her eyes were shining brightly, her lips were bloodless and drawn and her hands were shaking, but she was laughing.

“Hawke, this isn’t what it seems...” Sebastian tried to explain, to soothe her, but she shut him up with a gesture and turned away. He rushed to her, trying to make her listen and a dagger appeared in her hand like out of magic. She trained the blade on his throat and he had to stop dead on his tracks, before the blade’s tip could pierce his Adam’s apple.

“I gutted the last men that bet on me. I hunted them down and gutted them, Sebastian.”

“Hawke?” Isabela asked in a soft voice, her eyes huge , but her friend wasn’t even listening to her.

“Of course, they hadn’t bet on just a kiss,” Hawke continued, her voice and eyes colder than ice now, her whole body deadly still. “They bet on who would make me scream first. But _NONE_ of them won. I _never_ screamed.”

All the men in the room gasped as they started to understand, each of them finally getting the answer to a dialogue with Hawke, or to a comment she had made and had left them puzzled, to her aversion to letting people near her.

Isabela was the first to recover, tears streaming down her face, and she grasped her friend’s hand and slowly moved it away from Sebastian. Hawke finally looked at her friend and some feeling came back into her eyes at the look of pain that Isabela gave her.

“Let’s go, honey,” the pirate used her gentlest voice. “I’ll walk you home.”

She gave them all one last look as she was leaving and that one look was enough to break all their hearts. None of them had seen such a pained, betrayed look on a woman’s face before and none of them ever would again.

“Nug shit,” Varric mumbled in the quietness of the room and looked at three shocked faces around him. “NUG. SHIT.”

* * *

_I’m sorry, you have been used to me giving my commentary at the end of each chapter of this book, but ...I can’t. When I remember the look on her face...I can’t. I will have to drink myself to sleep tonight, and I am too old for this shit._

_Nug shit just about sums it all up anyhow._

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

 

Isabela had brought her home, although she didn’t remember any of it later, and got Sandal and his father to draw her a bath. The pirate queen had undressed Hawke as tenderly as a child, her still in shock and moving like an automaton, and got her in the bathtub without even speaking, although when her eyes had trailed over the scars on the young warrior’s body , the rogue had started crying again.

“How did it happen?” she had asked while washing her hair, with a caring, compassionate voice which was far removed for her usual carefree, teasing tone and Hawke had drawn a deep, agonized breath and told her everything, the words escaping her in a fevered rush, as if the ugly secret of her past was a prisoner, longing to break out. In the end, Isabela had just kissed her cheek, and told her she had a little job to take care of, but had promised to be back later.

The pirate made her way down the stairs, wiping her tears, a lethal, furious look in her eyes. She was banging on Aveline’s door a few minutes later, and dragged the red-haired Guard Captain behind her, telling her she needed he help in taking care of some lowlifes that had hurt Hawke. On their way to pick Merrill up, she told Aveline everything and the two women looked at each other, their enmity forgotten in their shared wrath. Merrill was just as livid when she was told, and the three of them made their way to the Hanged Man together, not saying a word to each other, anger boiling in their eyes.

* * *

The door to Varric’s suite burst open, hanging on its hinges from a powerful kick. The four men jumped to their feet, grapping their weapons. They had been sitting there for the past hour, too shocked to even move, not speaking. Varric had just refilled their glasses when they emptied. They didn’t look at each other, all of them were too horrified to acknowledge the guilt in the other’s eyes. Sebastian had buried his face in his hands in the corner and was quietly sobbing “Maker, what have I done?” to himself over and over again, until Fenris had gotten up and passed him a cup of the strongest whisky he could find in the dwarf’s private liquor cabinet.

They were all too shocked to respond quickly when Aveline brought the door down, her shield and sword in hand. Varric made a move for Bianca, and Fenris for his sword but one look from the Guard Captain stopped them dead in their tracks. Isabela sauntered in, followed by Merrill, that had her staff drawn and trained on them too, with a murderously angry look distorting her lovely face.

“Gentlemen,” Isabela spat the word in obvious contempt, “there are some thing you need to know, and after that, the girls and I will whoop your asses. You will take it like men, because you have behaved like pigs. Am I understood?”

All four males around the table looked at her in fear and then at each other before bending their heads and nodding. Isabela sat at the table, Aveline behind her, Merrill guarding the door, and poured herself a stiff drink. She downed it in one gulp, refilled her glass and held it between her palms, looking at them like she would some disgusting bug scurrying across the floor.

“She was barely fifteen,” she started, her voice cold and sombre. “A group of slavers surprised her and Bethany in the forest near their home. Bethany must have been about eleven, or twelve.” She took a sip of her drink, looking around at them, taking in how their eyes shot wide in renewed shock and horror.

“She told Bethany to run. Run and get help, while she stayed on and tried to fight them to give her baby sister the chance to get away... They had her for three days before her father could found her. They’d left her for dead after three days, they had raped her so many times she was useless to them by then.”

“Oh, Maker!” Sebastian gasped and Anders cringed. Varric had tears running down his face and looked like he was going to be sick. Fenris made a move to get up, he needed to get out and get some air, an invisible weight on his chest. _Oh, Hawke_ , he thought, and _I laughed at your nightmares, told you nothing you had gone through could compare to my troubles_...He was woken from his thoughts by Isabela’s hand grasping his tunic and pulling him back down, a hard growl vibrating in her neck.

“Sit down, Fenris. There is more,” she ominously said, her lips pulled back and her teeth barred. “SIT. DOWN.”

Once Fenris had settled down again, a horror-struck look on his face, Isabela continued. “They branded her,” she said and smiled coldly at Sebastian’s gasp, “ and cut her. She still has the scars. Bite marks and cuts and burns. But she survived. Her father healed her, and in time she found the courage to go on. She changed of course, from a happy, mischievous little imp of a girl, all sassy smiles and girly grace, to the woman we know now.”

She looked right into Sebastian’s eyes then.

“She had been damaged, but she hadn’t been broken. Not until tonight.”

Isabela stood up, drawing her daggers from her back and motioning to Aveline and Merrill, that closed in on them like a pack of wolves.

Fenris tried to protest as Aveline landed a pommel strike on Sebastian’s temple, who blanked out on the table. Merrill shot a blast of magic his way, that made the markings sizzle and burn and had him writhing on the floor. Anders was soon unconscious too, knocked over by a strike across the face with Aveline’s shield, and Varric raised his hands and tried to reason with them.

“Isabela, I know you are all upset, but we didn’t kn..” he found himself thrown to the floor and his breath was gone as a boot heel landed on his stomach. He watched, his stomach throbbing, as the three women went from one man to the other, kicking them and punching them, and soon enough, four heavily bruised men were lying on the floor, gasping for breath and whimpering in pain.

Isabela suckled her bruised knuckles and pulled Aveline back, giving them all a contemptuous look before turning and leaving.

“You come near her again, and we will gut you like the pigs you are,” Aveline tossed and moved to the door.

“You can bet on _that_.” Merrill added, and followed her.

* * *

Hawke got out of the tub and wrapped her body in a big, fluffy towel, all the while trying to avoid looking at her reflection in the mirror. She never looked at her naked body if she could help it; she would have to see the scars then, and she would have to remember how she’d gotten them. More than ten straight lines, the flesh white and raised in scars she would carry forever on the inside of each thigh, where the men that had raped her had each notched her flesh as if she was a living bedpost.   Telling Isabela everything had been bad enough, but to actually have to remember while she was alone...she was tough, but not made of stone.

She shivered. She could still hear their voices, lewd, slurred with drunkenness. She could still remember the pain and the humiliation. She could still remember how they had bet on who would break her, how they had laughed at her silent tears.

And yet, none of them had made her feel as dirty as that one kiss from Sebastian made her feel now. Somehow, even then, she knew it wasn’t her fault, she knew that whatever those monsters did to her she would be able to survive, she would find the strength inside her to rise above it. She had been able to shut what they had done to her away from her soul. They had sullied her, but not broken her. They had destroyed her body, but not her soul. She had still been able to believe in the goodness of the people around her, not as naively as before, but she hadn’t turned into a scared little girl that jumped at shadows either. She had been able to feel love, and trust and friendship. And she hadn’t lost her belief that somewhere out there, there was a man for her, one that would love her and cherish her, that would look beyond the fact that her body had been sullied and love her for who she was.

She had been raped more times that she’d been able to count, but she hadn’t lost her faith in love- it had taken just a kiss to destroy that.

Just one kiss. Wasn’t it tragic?

She dropped the towel and looked at herself, naked, for the first time in years. Coldness spreading inside her, she grabbed her dagger from the table and drew another slash next the silvery white scars on the inside of her thigh. Blood immediately rose and trickled down her leg, just as tears started trickling from her eyes.

“Sebastian...” she whispered, then drew another one on the other thigh, watching in silence as blood started trickling down that leg too.

“Fenris,” she whispered. Even the ex-slave had no qualms using her. She drew another line next to the first one. “Anders.” The healer. _Heal this, you hypocrite_. A stinging pain added to the one in her soul, to the feeling of betrayal that was clouding her judgment and making her lash out against her own self. She looked at the blood spurting form the last cut dispassionately. _That was probably a bit too deep_ , she thought as blood started pouring down her legs even faster. She turned to her other leg again, and drew the knife through her flesh one more time. “Let’s not forget Varric,” she half laughed, half-sobbed. “What a good friend!”

She looked at the mirror again, at her blood-covered legs, her high, rounded breasts, trailing her fingers over the bite shaped scar there. Were there any men on this world that weren’t animals? Were there any men- anywhere—that looked at woman and saw something other than a piece of meat? Weren’t there any men that could show a woman respect and love and tenderness? She turned around, and looked at the brand on the right cheek of her curvy backside. She could still remember the horrid smell of her own flesh burning. She laughed, a mirthless, cold laugh. A man to love her. That’s all she had wanted. But apparently, she wasn’t worth any love. This was what she was worth of; being treated like an object. Not respect, not care, not any consideration for her feelings. Not even friendship, not from a man at least. She wasn’t even worth that, obviously.

She went back to her bed, not caring that her blood was soaking everything, not feeling anything, her heart frozen and numb. She just lay there, until the loss of blood and her exhaustion pulled her under and she fell into the Fade, whimpering softly in her sleep.

Marian Hawke had finally stopped believing in love. And all it had taken was a kiss. One kiss. One kiss and three brainless, careless men, who had cared more about proving to each other who was better, than for the woman they were fighting about. And a friend who had betrayed her trust.

 

* * *

 

_I read about this in her journal years later, and I still get queasy at the thought that she carried a new scar for me too. I have done some horrible things in my life; I admit I haven’t been the most upstanding citizen you can imagine...I have cheated, lied (boy, have I lied!), killed, and hurt people. That little scar on Hawke’s thigh was the worst thing I have ever done though, the worst thing any of us had ever done._

_I bawled like a beaten child when I learnt about what had happened to her and when I realised what our little bet had done to her. I loved Hawke. I honestly loved her, well, not as a man loves a woman, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t love. Capital L on this please. I Loved her. I still do, in fact._

_We all had bruises for days. None of us spoke about them, or tried to get them healed. Not even Anders, and certainly not Sebastian, who had to return to the Chantry and answer to Elthina’s questions about them. She might have given him another one slapping him when he had confessed what he had done._

_I saw the scars on her thighs years later and I desperately wanted to kill something. I wanted to hit myself too. There were indeed four scars that weren’t so jagged, grouped together, two on each thigh. One of them was for me. And I deserved it. I may never have lifted a finger on her body, but every single one of us was guilty of rape._

_We raped her soul, broke her spirit, and everything that came afterwards- all the shitstorm that followed- was entirely our fault._


	9. Chapter 9

Isabela and Aveline returned to Hawke’s mansion, and tried to reassure a worried Bodahn that nothing was wrong. The dwarf wasn’t stupid, he could see something had happened to upset his mistress, but he didn’t pursue the matter anymore, trusting in her friends to take care of her. The two women climbed the stairs to her room together, and peeked inside the now dark room. Hawke seemed to have fallen asleep, curled into a tight little ball under the covers. Some small whimpers escaped her, and the women assumed she was having another nightmare.

Merrill joined them, walking silently on her bare feet.

“Blood,” she whispered, her pretty green eyes shooting wide in alarm. “The scent of blood is in the air. I can feel it.”

Isabela and Aveline looked at each other before bursting into the room. They drew the covers back and gasped at the bloody mess on the bed. Aveline looked Hawke over, trying to find the source of the blood and then grasped the pirate’s arm.

“She cut herself,” she groaned, her voice suspiciously thin. “Maker help me, I will castrate those bastards! She cut herself!”

Isabela paled and then put a hand on Hawke’s shoulder to try and wake her up. She didn’t move.

“A healer!” Merrill cried. “We need a healer! I’ll go get An...Oh! No, not him. I’ll go fetch someone else.”

And in a flash she was gone.

Aveline and Isabela kept trying to rouse Hawke, getting more and more desperate, until the healer, an old withered lady, arrived. She was bleary eyed and obviously grumpy at having being woken up at such a late hour, but as soon as she took a look at the woman on the bed, she shook her head and got right down to business, waving her friends out the door.

She reappeared a half-hour later, weary and drained, and shot the girls a withering look.

“Any of you know what caused her to do this? She nearly bled to death, and those cuts seemed self-inflicted.”

“Men...” Isabela scoffed and the healer’s eyes hardened.

“I’d like to get my hands on the man that did...whatever he did to her! That girl is in shock, and it made matters worse. I found no traces of her... being forced, though. At least not recently.”

She looked to the women again, her eyes both condemning and compassionate. “That poor girl had nearly been ripped apart in the past. I have only seen that kind of damage once before, and it was due to labour, a petite girl delivering an extremely large baby. But this girl...you can see she had been taken in..unnatural ways as well- a long time ago. Care to tell me what happened to her?”

Isabela put some coins in the woman’s hand, shuddering at the description, and led her down the stairs.

“We would appreciate your discretion, Serah,” she mumbled. “We will take care of her, don’t worry,” she carefully avoided answering the healer’s questions, who shot a last pitying look towards the door, sighed and left.

Aveline came to stand next to the pirate, and they exchanged a look. Merrill soon joined them, after checking on Hawke. They quickly established a schedule to take care of her, so that she wouldn’t be left a moment alone.

Aveline took the first shift and sat next to Hawke’s bed, a grim look on her face. As soon as the door had closed behind the two other women, she took Hawke’s hand in hers and brought it to her lips.

She started sobbing quietly, her tough façade crumbling at the thought of the burden her friend had been lugging around without any of them knowing for so long.

“Oh, Hawke...” she whispered. “Why didn’t you say something, honey?”

* * *

Fenris sat perched on the windowsill of Hawke’s bedroom, careful not to be seen by any of the women, mindful of his bruised ribs and aching muscles. He had nearly leapt into the room when he had seen her broken and bleeding on the bed, and had to bite his knuckles not to shout in anguish at the healer’s words.

He watched Aveline break down and cry over her friend’s sleeping form, his own eyes stinging with unshed tears. Maker, what had they done to her? To see that unbreakable, strong, resilient woman reduced to this...broken mess, was something he had never thought possible. He remember snippets of conversation with her, and realised the clues had all been there, they had all just been too blind to see them. Hawke had been someone they used, each for their own cause, but not once had they taken the time to really _look_ at her and understand her.

He hung his head in shame. They were less than men. They were pigs, the girls had been right. None of them deserved to even breathe the same air as Hawke, much less make any claim on her. It wasn’t just Sebastian who was at fault here, although his crime was the gravest, because he had given her hope, only to snatch it back. But they were all guilty, not only for that stupid bet, but for failing their most basic task as men: to take notice of the remarkable woman she was, to cherish her and comfort her pain. Instead they had inflicted it. And now she would probably never want to even look at any of them again.

He carefully climbed down, using the branches of the overgrown ivy that climbed the side of her house. Clutching his throbbing ribs with one hand, and his aching heart with the other, he made his way back to the Hanged Man.

* * *

Hawke woke up in the morning, feeling weak and embarrassed. She turned her eyes to her left, where Merrill was dozing on the chair. She was aware of somebody coming and giving her first aid last night, she could feel the bandages on her thighs. Her cheeks blushed, as much as last night’s loss of blood allowed for, and she shifted on the bed. She had been weak and pitiful last night and she had allowed her friends to see her like that. Weakness was abhorrent to her, she had vowed to herself she would never be weak and helpless; it was a promise she had kept. Even when the world crumbled around her, when her home had been lost, when her brother and then her sister had died, when her mother had been taken from her, she had stayed strong.

Shame churned in her stomach, and she turned to her side, looking for something to vomit in. Merrill was there in a flash, holding her hair while she heaved on the floor, murmuring soothing worlds in Dalish, that made her feel even more humiliated. What was she, a pitiful little girl, to allow herself to break down like that? She had been betrayed. So what? Worst things had happened to her and she had survived. She had used her pain to temper herself like a sword over a forge’s fire. She just had to find a way to do that again.

Isabela and Aveline rushed in, and drawing deep breaths to settle her stomach and trembling muscles, she asked them to send Oranna in to clean up and then to leave her alone.

Nothing the women said could change her mind and in the end, sighing heavily, they complied with her wishes.

She watched her friends go, one part of her soul feeling relieved and the other crying out silently, _don’t leave me alone, don’t mind what I say, please stay_. She clamped down on that little lost voice ruthlessly and closed her eyes. She would be strong. She. Would. Be. Strong. She would not cry. _Never again_.

She was alone. She would always be alone. _Get used to it_ , she told that whimpering little girl inside her.

With a sniveling sob, the voice complied and fell silent.

* * *

_Fenris came back and told us what had happened. We barely looked at each other, shame making us avoid each other like murderers that were horrified of what they had all done together, and what each had allowed himself to do._

_Sebastian had been at the Chantry and he had confessed and asked for advice from the Grand Cleric. She had told him he already had the Maker’s forgiveness. Pffttt!_

_He got off too easy, if you want to ask me. Okay, she gave him a slap; she was a cleric first, but then she was a woman and while the cleric had forgiven him, the woman had been outraged. Still, a slap and a few Hail Andrastes? He got off way too easy...._

_One thing was sure, though, his faith in the Maker had been shaken. Just before leaving he mumbled that the Maker was a crock of shit, if he was real he would have stricken him with lightning before he had ever had a chance to even look at her._

_Truer words had never been spoken._

_I took it as a sign of remorse and regret...how was I to know that it was the first sign?_


	10. Chapter 10

Hawke left her house just two days later, decked in her armour and with her sword on her back. She started walking resolutely towards the Hanged Man, then her gait faltered and stopped. _I need a new meeting place for my group_ , she thought. Who was left in her group anyway? Just Merril, Aveline and Isabela. She had lost four companions at once and the idea stung and hurt. She ran her hand though her now short hair, and then turned to the direction of the Viscount’s Keep to see if Aveline could come with her.

She didn’t notice the hidden figure that was watching her secretly from the shadows between her estate and the next. She never heard his surprised gasp when he took in her short hair; she had hacked it all off with a knife. She didn’t see the dark circles under those once brilliant turquoise blue eyes, that were now red-rimmed and bloodshot.

Sebastian had been drinking for days, had banged on her door more times than he could remember, and had been turned away just as many.

Guilt was a monster clawing at his insides, and only alcohol could drown it, at least for a while. So, he had been drinking and then he had drunk some more. The Grand Cleric had sent people looking for him, and he had moved his drinking to Varric’s suite, not stopping until he was completely pickled. He had tried praying to the Maker, but it didn’t work. The Maker no longer gave him solace. He had dreams, nightmares, horrible nightmares of a young Hawke trying to outran a rapist in the forest. He watched her run and fight and cry as the monster brutalized her, every night. He woke up screaming when the face of the monster in is dream was revealed to be his own.

Alcohol fogged other people’s minds but it cleared his. He admitted to himself for the first time he was in love with her, he had been for years. He admitted to himself that he had been hiding in the Chantry, living a quiet complacent life, because he was too much of a coward to claim what he really wanted: Hawke and his throne. So, today he had gone to the Grand Cleric, asked for her forgiveness, and then announced he was going back to Starkhaven to reclaim his rightful position as Prince. Elthina had looked at him in both sorrow and pride, and asked him what he was planning to do with Hawke.

“I am not going back until she forgives me and agrees to join me,” Sebastian had replied.

“Join you? As what?”

“As my bride.”

* * *

When Hawke returned home that morning, after Aveline had told her she was not accompanying her anywhere until she was certain she was completely healed, she found Varric waiting at her doorstep.

She tensed and her hand went to the hilt of her greatsword. Varric raised his hands in the air.

“Hey, Hawke, wait!” he cried out. “You don’t need that, pal, please put it away.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Pal?” she spat. “Isn’t that another word for friend, dwarf? You are _not_ my friend.”

Varric stood up sighing. “I was stupid and thoughtless, Hawke. But I never wanted to see you hurt. For what it’s worth- and it’s probably worth shit- I _am_ sorry.”

Hawke took a good long look at her once most trusted friend.

“All I want from you is an answer, Varric,” she finally said. “Why? Why did you do it? Why take part in that bet?”

Varric looked away and then smiled bitterly to himself.

“I will be completely honest with you, Hawke, thought that might mean that you will never forgive me. I didn’t just take part in the bet. _I proposed it_. It was stupid and cruel, but there it is. Don’t attribute my actions to malice when they can be perfectly explained by stupidity.”

He looked at her then, and his eyes grew sad. “If I’d had any idea of...what had happened to you, I wouldn’t even have dreamt of proposing it. I am sorry. Both for the bet and for...that.”

She went past him and opened the door to her house not even looking at him, though it broke her heart in two. Of all her male companions, Varric would be the one she would miss the most. He had been a friend, someone she could trust, the only person who could make her laugh. It was like losing a brother all over again.

“I don’t know if I can forgive you Varric,” she said. “And even if I could, I don’t know if I could ever trust you again.”

And closed the door behind her.

Anders was the next one to ask for her forgiveness, although he did it with a long, rambling letter. She raised an eyebrow when she read he had come to her house to tell her all about the bet that night, but dismissed it with a scoff. It was easy to say you were planning to do the right thing after you had been caught. She threw the letter in the fire blazing in the fireplace and didn’t bother to reply. Anders had been a tender and caring man in her eyes before; now he was quickly labelled a hypocrite and a liar. She had no place for men like that in her life.

Sebastian came knocking the next day, just as Aveline was leaving. Hawke had spend an uncomfortable and awkward half hour with the Guard Captain, who had insisted on checking on her wounds and then that Hawke should tell her all about her past ordeal, persisting that she should share her feelings to make her feel better. Bah, feelings...What good had ever come out of them? She had allowed herself to feel, she had allowed herself to be vulnerable and ...feminine. What good had come out of it?

She’d asked Aveline to leave, angry and humiliated. She hadn’t wanted anyone to know. The words had slipped out of her mouth, and now everyone saw her as a weak, damaged, hurt little girl, instead of the capable, fearless woman she had always strode to be. Now, everyone knew and nobody looked at her the same, they treated her like something made of glass, and even worse, broken glass, talking to her about feelings and wounds that needed to be healed. She needed no healing, no therapy. She was fine as she was, as long as she took care not to forget that she wasn’t supposed to trust people any more.

Aveline walked to the door with her shoulders stooped, feeling helpless and useless. She hadn’t been able to make Hawke open up, and she knew her friend needed to do that and confront her past before she even had a chance of having a future. But perhaps they should give her time. Hawke had lost her trust in people and friendship and she had erected an even thicker wall around her than she had before.

And the man responsible for that was who they saw as soon as they opened the door.

Sebastian stood there, with his fist raised, ready to knock on the door. The bruises on his face were just beginning to fade, mottled green and yellow where they had been black and blue. Aveline narrowed her eyes and stepped in front of Hawke, trying to protect her, but she was shoved to the side by her friend.

“I don’t need your protection, Aveline,” she hissed. “I am _not_ helpless.”

Aveline’s jaw dropped at Hawke’s aggressiveness. She understood her reaction a second later and mentally noted not to coddle her and make her feel powerless again. Hawke was a strong woman, being strong was important to her. Anyone who threatened or questioned her strength, be it friend or foe, was sure to be met with hostility. She stepped aside, nodding to Hawke and smiled at her. A brief moment of understanding passed between them, and a tiny smile graced Hawke’s lips for the first time.

At least, and at last, Aveline understood her.

Hawke then turned to the ex-prince with narrowed eyes, her whole posture hostile and on edge.

“Sebastian,” she spat.

“Can we talk, Hawke?” he muttered. “Inside?” his eyes fell to Aveline, who was glowering at him. “Alone?”

“Sure, why not?” Hawke gestured him inside. “Nice bruises by the way, your Highness,” she said, almost conversationally. She glanced to Aveline, who smirked and bowed, before taking her leave. She didn’t really want to leave, but she had to trust Hawke to be able to take care of any problems alone. And even if she didn’t, she was supposed- as a friend- to try and pretend that she did.

Sebastian followed her to the study, where Hawke whirled around and looked at him in the eyes.

“So, Sebastian,” she drawled, coldness spreading in her eyes. “We are alone. What was it that you wanted?”

“Your hair, Hawke...” he stuttered, tears in his eyes, “your glorious hair...why did you cut it?”

Sebastian tried to approach her, his hand in the air as if he had wanted to touch the short tendrils around her face, but she flinched and drew back, avoiding him. He sighed and rubbed his forehead.

“You came all the way here to ask about my hairdo, Sebastian?” she folded her arms across her chest and stared at him with a flinty look in her cat-like eyes.

“I wanted to apologise,” he started. “I had been planning to drop to my knees and ask for your forgiveness, but...” he spared a look to her eyes, cold and furious and sighed again, “...I don’t think it will work.”

“Perceptive, as always...” she drawled. “How much did you win, Sebastian?”

The prince blushed and bowed his head.

“I gave them the money back...” he stuttered, but was interrupted by a gesture.

“How much?” she asked, her voice deadly calm and quiet.

“Hawke...please... don’t do that, sweetling...” he begged, his eyes filling with desperation.

“HOW. MUCH?”

Sebastian drew a deep breath, steeling himself. He deserved every bit of her anger, every curse and insult she would hurtle at him. He had come here to let her rant and rave and take out all her anger on him. Maybe then he would have a chance to reach her, once her ire and fury was spent.

“It was five sovereign, five from each of them...” he muttered under his breath in the end.

She looked hard and long at his bowed head, contempt curling her lip. “At least it was more than what a whore at the Blooming Rose is worth,” she said before going to a chest in the corner and taking a pouch of coins out, effectively breaking his heart with the bitterness in her voice.

“Here, fifteen sovereign,” she counted the coins and put them in a smaller pouch which she handed to him. “Enjoy your winnings.”

Sebastian eyes shot wide and he was left staring at the pouch, his blush spreading. “I...I don’t...Hawke...I...” he stuttered, shattered by her gesture. Did she really think he had done this for the money? Was her opinion of him so low now? Maker, what had he done?

“What?” she quirked an eyebrow. “Too little? Yes, you are right... Besides, that was my _first_ kiss, Sebastian, and it was a nice kiss, all things considered. Here, take fifteen more. On second though here, take all of it. I don’t know how much it is. A dozen bets’ worth, probably.” And she tossed the bigger pouch at him.

“Now, get out, before I throw you out. I never want to see you again.”

* * *

Fenris was coming back from the Hanged Man, where he had spend hours trying to console a totally miserable Varric. He had gone to Hawke that morning, and as far as Fenris could tell, it hadn’t gone well. He sighed and run his hands through his hair. An apology was necessary, but he knew it would fall on deaf ears. Hawke would not listen to anything he said, just as she hadn’t listened to Varric, just as she hadn’t given Sebastian the time of day, just as she had ignored the abomination.

He passed through the Hightown market and stopped at a flower stand, a small smile curling his lips. Hawke’s only womanly concession: a flower she bought every morning from the elderly woman. He had asked her about it once, and her whole face had lit up, saying that there had been a time when she had loved gardening, and that each flower had a symbolism and meant something. He had humoured her and asked what the one she had picked that day meant and her eyes had instantly lost her sparkle before she had told him it stood for memory, for remembrance. He had assumed she had meant her mother, recently dead, and hadn’t pressured the issue.

He approached the stand now and tried to look for that specific flower, but there were so many and they all looked the same. The vendor, an elderly woman, gave him a warm smile and asked what he wanted.

The words “a flower that to apologise” just slipped out of his mouth and the old woman started ranting about what each flower meant before handing him a small bouquet of a beautiful purple flowers.

“There you go, young man,” the vendor smiled. “ Purple hyacinths to express your sorrow-filled apology and to ask for forgiveness. Does your lady know what flowers mean?”

Fenris blushed and nodded yes, before paying and heading for her estate. He stopped with his fist raised over her door. She would probably make him eat them. He understood how she must be feeling, not just angry and betrayed, but humiliated as well. He was certain her secret hadn’t been something she would ever have told anyone, he knew how it felt to be violated. He had been fighting against the shame he had felt at the abuses he had gone through for years, after all. Although he knew he wasn’t responsible for them, although he knew that there had been nothing he could do to prevent them, the feeling of shame remained. She was probably feeling the same way.

And...truth be told, he felt a little stupid and self-conscious standing here in front of her door, one hand raised to knock and the other clutching the bouquet of flowers. He looked up at her window and making up his mind, he climbed up, assisted by the thick ivy that scaled her walls. He left the flowers on the windowsill and climbed down. They would probably be carried away by the breeze, or she would probably never find them. _Coward_ , he told himself, _you_ _spineless coward!_

He bowed his head and left.

The next morning, Hawke opened her window and was stunned to see a bouquet of flowers there. She picked it up, and brought the fragrant blooms to her nose, inhaling deeply. Purple hyacinths. That meant...she raked her mind. That meant forgiveness, apology. Someone had taken the time to find just the right flower to apologise. Who could it have been? Fenris. It must have been Fenris. He was the only one who had ever asked her about her fascination with flowers, but she thought he hadn’t been paying attention. The fact alone that he remembered, let alone that he went to the trouble to find a way to apologise that would mean something special to her, made her smile. She hardened herself against the warm feeling spreading inside her a minute later, but, still his gestured had registered. She took the flowers inside and put them in a vase.

He hadn’t pestered her, he hadn’t come knocking on her door or boring her with useless platitudes. Instead he remember she loved flowers. She had never received flowers before.

Grabbing her greatsword she made her way downstairs, not realising that she had a small smile on her face. Bodahn saw, and was relieved. It seemed that whatever it was that had caused her distress was slowly passing.

Thank the Maker!

* * *

_Fenris...what can I say about that elf? Brooding, scowling, opinionated, temperamental, prickly elf. But a sweetheart when he wanted to. A complete and utter gentleman. A Prince, if you like, by attitude instead of birth like the Choir Boy._

_Flowers, how hadn’t any of us thought of that? We all knew she loved them. I guess, what I said before was true: none of us really **saw** Hawke. None of us really saw the woman she really was. The men that claimed to love her, really only saw themselves and what they needed, not what she needed._

_Fenris had never claimed to love her. Bit he **saw** her. He understood her, especially after he had learned what she had gone through. And he was the only one who could really sympathise with that. _

_Years later, I asked him what had made him stick by her even when she pushed all of us away. He had replied that pushing everyone away was what he would have done, but he would have been grateful if at least one person hadn’t complied with his wishes. He had looked in the distance and said “when you have build walls around you, Varric, someone has to knock them down, not wait for you to open the door.”_

_I guess he knew better._

_Maker bless that elf. I miss his brooding mug. But Hawke and he were one, and when we lost her, we lost him too._

 

 

 

 

 

 

  


	11. Chapter 11

Fenris went to see the most unlikely of people the other day, Anders. The mage was surprised to say the least, but he was civil and waited patiently while Fenris uncharacteristically fidgeted and shuffled his feet, trying to find the courage to talk to the abomination.

“Cat got your tongue, elf?” Anders asked in the end, folding his arms across his chest. “Maybe I should start putting elves out instead of milk.”

“Shut up, mage,” Fenris growled. “This is important.”

Anders just looked at him, waiting.

“Well?” he asked in the end, since the elf continued fidgeting, still not talking. “Andraste’s pinkie, elf, if you have a funny rash or anything, I am NOT touching you there...”

Fenris’ lips tightened and he made a move as if he wanted to leave, before his shoulders stooped and he let out a resigned sigh.

“I..wanted to talk to you,” Fenris finally said, avoiding the mage’s eyes. “About Hawke.”

Anders immediately abandoned his bored, leisurely posture, his attention instantly captured.

“What about Hawke? Did something else happen?”

Fenris sat on a broken crate and rubbed a weary head across his forehead. It took forever for his next words to leave his lips... Maker, what was he doing here?

“She...she needs you, mage,” he finally said, his deep, velvety voice sombre, hesitant. “Anders. She needs someone like you; you are the only one who can help her.”

Anders’ eyes shot wide in surprise and then he grabbed a crate too and sat across the elf. He shot him a distrustful look.

“What makes you say that, elf?”

The white-haired elf looked away and then his lips pressed tight. Taking a deep breath, he met the other man’s gaze.

“I... I have no idea how to be gentle or caring,” he grudgingly admitted and shot the blond human an irritated look when Anders scoffed sarcastically. He wanted to hit him. Maker, help him, he had wanted to bash his head in. He ground his teeth together against the urge and continued, his voice barely audible. “Sebastian will never be allowed near her again, she will not forgive him. You are the only one who can ...ease her pain.” He hesitated again, the next thing he wanted to say was probably the hardest thing he was ever going to utter. “You and I don’t see eye to eye on anything, but I am willing to admit.... You are exactly what she needs.”

Anders was floored. He had no idea...How much could a man care for a woman to be willing to hand her over to someone else, just to see her happy? Shame filled him. He had wanted Hawke, but for his own selfish reasons, because _she_ could make him happy, because he needed _her_ , because _she_ had the strength to help him in his cause while grounding him in reality, in the losing fight against the voice in his head. But he had never thought if he could make _her_ happy. He looked hard and deep inside him and realised, that...no, he couldn’t. He would never be able to put her and her needs first.

He had always considered Fenris a wild, vicious, bitter person, unable of deeper emotions, unable of feeling anything but hate. The fact that he cared for Hawke so much was humbling. Here the elf was, talking to the person he despised the most, urging him to try and conquer the woman he himself wanted.

“Wow,” he said, looking at the other man in surprised awe. “That must’ve hurt to say. Not to mention that is probably the longest sentence I’ve heard you address to me.”

Fenris’ lip quirked up for a fraction of a second. “It hurt like a mother, yes, but I am in earnest. I will...assist you in any way I can. It will kill me to do so, but... I will. She is more important.”

Anders’ eyes were sad. “Since we are being truthful here, elf... Fenris,” he corrected himself, “I will tell you this: what she needs is a man willing to sacrifice what he wants the most for her wellbeing. And that is NOT me.”

He laid a hand on the elf’s shoulder still amazed they were having this conversation and waiting for Fenris to light up his markings and shove a fist through his chest. But Fenris seemed shell-shocked at his words, his eyes huge.

“ I will be the one to help any way I can.” Ander said, inwardly cringing at what he was suggesting. “And this conversation will stay between us.”

Fenris collected himself and twitched, dislodging the mage’s hand from his shoulder.

“As if anyone would ever believe us, were we to disclose it,” he scoffed and then stood.

Anders stood up too. “So, will you go to her?”

A panicked look crossed the elf’s face for the barest of moments, and then his face hardened in determination. He nodded to the mage.

“Eventually, I will.” He drew a deep breath. “This is...terrifying.” He realised what he was saying and narrowed his eyes to the mage. “Breathe a word to anyone that I just said this, mage, and my fist and your heart will become very good acquaintances.”

Anders raised both his hands in front of his chest, palms out, and he shook his head.

“Breathe a word of what to whom, elf? I haven’t seen you in days.”

Fenris smiled, nodded tersely, turned around and left.

* * *

Hawke and Isabela were walking together in the market that very afternoon, going shopping after the pirate’s insistent pleas. She had dragged Hawke with her, telling her that she needed some good, old-fashioned girl time to make her feel better, and Hawke hadn’t had the heart to tell her that was the last thing she needed, the words ‘girl time’, making her cringe.

Despite herself, though, she was having fun. Isabela was bold and bawdy, like always, making people in the stalls and shops either ogle her or gasp in shock. She was, after all, dressed in nothing but the scantiest of clothes, and she had no qualms bending over and flashing everybody with her ...assets.

She treated Hawke just like any other girl, asking for her opinion on anything she bought, letting her snicker at her with the outrageous choices she made. The hat shop had been especially hilarious, where she had bought the most outlandish creations for her collection, and had insisted to try them all on. The sight of Isabela with a huge hat adorned with birds and feathers was too much and Hawke had started giggling uncharacteristically. People that knew her secret usually avoided sexual innuendos around her as well, but Isabela didn’t. It was reassuring and refreshing, that at least one person treated her the same way as always.

But the most refreshing thing about her was how she didn’t mince her words or walk on eggshells around her. She didn’t refer to what happened to her as ‘that’ or ‘this’ but called it boldly but its name: rape. She asked her questions and didn’t flinch or look at her with pity in her eyes, as if she had somehow understood that pity was the last thing Hawke had ever wanted. Later, as they had retired to a dockside tavern, tired and hot, she had even propositioned her again while they were enjoying their ales, telling her that maybe she should give up on men altogether, and try women instead.

Hawke had been flustered and started stuttering wildly, but Isabela had just laughed, telling her she had been joking. And then the subject had inadvertently returned to men.

“So,” Isabela drawled, sipping her ale, “you have never actually had sex before. You are a virgin.”

Hawke’s eyes grew sad, before they hardened. “How can you say that? Isabela, there were more than ten men in that group of slavers.”

“Rape doesn’t count, Hawke,” the pirate’s voice was gentle. “And they were not men. They were pigs, monsters, but not men. It was like grand theft, what they did to you, but if you haven’t consensually lain with a man so far, I consider you a virgin. For all intents and purposes, you are one.”

Hawke was flabbergasted, looking at her friend with a confused look on her face. Her eyes were huge and hurt and Isabela grasped her hand, giving her a reassuring squeeze.

“It doesn’t count?”

“It doesn’t.” Isabela was adamant. “How come you don’t know that, Hawke?”

“There was a boy, back home...” she cast her eyes downward, a blush spreading. “He took me out some times, and ...he wanted to know what they had done to me, if I had enjoyed it. He said...”

“I don’t care what he said Hawke, he was a fool. I hope you punched him in the face!” Isabela interrupted her, indignant on her behalf. “I hope he got raped by darkspawn, and then eaten, the little shit!”

Hawke looked in the other woman’s eyes for a few long moments, seeking the truth in what she had said. When she realised Isabela had meant every word, her breath caught. She knew it hadn’t been her fault, but she had felt soiled nonetheless. Dirty, as if she had been nothing more than a well used whore in the eyes of others. A smile slowly unfurled and graced her face as the idea sunk in, that Isabela, with her vast experience considered her...untouched.

“You know,” a cheeky smile spreading, “I think he did, in the end. Get eaten by darkspawn, I mean.”

Isabela snorted and then they both started laughing.

* * *

Varric was waiting for her again when she returned home, and she cursed under her breath. Maker, weren’t they going to let her enjoy a whole day without her mood being destroyed? She opened her mouth to tell him to go, before her turned away and got something out of his pack. Perplexed, she watched him unfold a big piece of canvas, and start... was he pitching a tent? In front of her doorstep?

“Varric, what are you doing?” she grumbled, annoyed at the questioning look the passersby were giving the dwarf that was now spreading out a bedroll on the ground.

“I am going to camp on your doorstep until you forgive me Hawke,” Varric said, a totally serious expression on his face, his lips tightened in determination. “I might have trouble finding wood for a fire, and the game around here is dreadful,” he continued. He looked at a fat noble that had stood observing them unashamedly, raised his voice and said “but there are a lot of plump noblemen around. If I get desperate, I might roast one of them.”

The nobleman hurried off with a terrified shriek and Varric cursed under his breath.

“So there you have it, Hawke. Your own resident squatter. I might even unfold a banner. I think it will write, DESPERATE DWARF BEGGING FOR FORGIVENESS.”

Hawke huffed irritably, and looked away.

“Don’t make me grovel, Hawke,” Varric added. “We dwarves are short enough as it is, getting us down on our knees is just plain cruel.”

A ghost of a smile played on her lips for just a second at that, and Varric begun to feel more hopeful. But she still hadn’t said anything.

“So, what will it be, Hawke? Will you give a stupid dwarf a second chance?” he waited for an answer and begun to feel desperate again when she still didn’t reply, but looked away in the distance, as if the answer to life and existence was hidden in the rooftops of Hightown.

“Come on, Hawke,” he begged her, “who will write your stories? Will you let a stranger write your memoirs?”

Her face whipped around and an impish light appeared in her eyes.

“On one condition, Varric. I will forgive you on one condition.”

“Name it,” Varric said and braced himself.

“You will never write anything about me again,” she smiled cruelly at the way his eyes widened and his hand went to his heart on its own accord.

“Oh, stomp on my poor heart while you’re at it, Hawke!” Varric said with a hurt expression. “But fine. If you forgive me I will never write another book about you. At least while you are alive.”

She raised an eyebrow. “What makes you so sure I will die first?”

“I am too handsome by far to die,” Varric replied, and smiled cheekily. “And let’s face it, with your lifestyle? I give you about ten more years, tops.”

She laughed then and opened her door to show him in. “Maybe even less, Varric, maybe even less,” she sighed.

Just before coming in, Varric grasped her hand, squeezed it tightly and pulled her down to kiss her cheek. “By the Stone, Hawke I missed you like I would my own sister.” He went past her then, leaving her stunned at the doorway. She was almost certain there had been tears gleaming in his eyes.

“Breathe a word to anyone about this, Hawke and I will sick Bianca on you”.

She smiled to herself. Well, she could not hold a grudge against Varric for long. He was like family, stupid bet aside. And she had missed him too, the damned dwarf!

* * *

She found another flower on her window the next morning, and smiled broadly. This time it was a pink carnation that meant “always on my mind”. _Oh, how sweet_ , she thought, and looked around to see if he was hiding somewhere, secretly watching her. She went inside and picked a flower from the vase on her dresser. She left it on the windowsill for Fenris to find.

It was a yellow lily. Fenris found it that very night, when he returned with another flower for her. He crushed the flower that he was about to leave her in his hands and climbed down to find the old woman, before she had closed her stall for the night. She told him the flower stood for gratefulness, an elegant way to say thank you, and he thought for a minute before blushing and explaining to the woman what he wanted.

Minutes later he was leaving a plumeria, as the woman had called it, on her windowsill.

It stood for ‘hope for a new beginning’.

He leapt down, and looked wistfully to her window.

If she replied positively, he would go to her. Maker help him, he would go to her.

* * *

_We spend that evening drinking together, me and Hawke. I was so relieved she had forgiven me, I had to hide tears many times. I promised myself never to give her reason to doubt my friendship and I never did. I didn’t write any books about her, too, although my hand itched time and time again._

_This is the first book I have written, because...well, Hawke is dead. She died last spring, thirty years more or less after the events of this story. And how did the Champion die? She had a cold, and then it got worse and before we could get a healer, just like that, she died._

_She was mourned by her elf, their children and their grandchildren, still babes in arms._

_Fenris took his own life a few days later. He couldn’t stand living without her._

_And here I am, an old man, most of my old friends gone, writing her story. Her beautiful daughters come and see me every other day, and their son, a spitting image of Fenris, breaks my heart every time I see him._

_I had to read both their journals to understand the meaning of the flowers that the elf had requested to be planted on their graves._

_Who would have guessed that damned elf to be so romantic?_


	12. Chapter 12

 

Hawke woke up from another horrid dream and sighed, turning to hide her face in the pillow, waiting until that moment of utter panic when she first woke up to pass. She resisted the urge to start crying. What good would that do? What good had it ever done?

In her dream she had been 15 again, just a few days after her father had saved her. She had been lying in bed, lucid for the first time after days, and listened to the hushed argument coming from the next room. He parents had been talking, discussing her. _She will never find anyone to want to marry her, not after that_ , her mother had said. _Thank the Maker that at least Bethany escaped_ , her father had replied. _I couldn’t have taken it if my sweet Bethany had been put through that_ , her mother had commended. Her father had hissed something at that, some admonition, to which her mother had apologised...but Hawke had always known she wasn't the favourite, so that hadn’t cut as deeply as one might have expected.

She had relived it all in her dream, but with a twist. She had seen her parents toss her out the door, telling her she was unclean, and spoiled, and that they didn’t want to have a dirty little whore for a daughter. She had seen herself beg, and cry, and her brother and sister turning their backs on her.

She had woken up with a scream. Again.

She got up and walked to the mirror. Sebastian had told her she was worth breaking his vows for, and Anders had told her he was there for her if she needed him. Both of them had lied, and she was a fool for having believed them. Not even her own mother had been there for her, what had made her believe two strangers ever would?

That wasn’t entirely true, she admitted with a sigh. Her mother had tried, but she had never been able to get close to her again. Her own feelings of shame and unworthiness had made her push her away. Her father had died just a year later, and then the dynamics between mother and daughter had changed, Hawke taking up the role of the protector of the family and her mother watching her struggle to provide for their family with mixed feelings of awe and guilt.

Still, her family’s response to her rape had been to either pretend it had never happened, or to smother her with concern. She had wanted neither. She had tried talking to Bethany about it, but the girl, barely a teenager, had blanched and refused to listen. Her mother pretended it had never happened. Her brother had fretted and got into fistfights every time a man dared talk to her.

All she had wanted was someone to talk to. Someone to tell her it hadn’t been her fault. That she wasn’t damaged goods. That she was worthy of being loved. Deep down inside she knew, she had always known, but it would have been nice if someone else had bothered to tell her too.

Hawke returned to bed with a heavy sigh, after having looked at herself in the mirror’s reflection for a few long minutes. That belief had been shaken. Maybe she was not made out to be anything but a warrior. A problem solver. A sword for hire.

She fell asleep again, sparing a look at the window first. Would he come again tonight?

She hadn’t left any flowers. If he wanted to talk to her, it was about time he did it on his own.

* * *

She left very early the next day, to go on an errand for Aveline, something to do with one of her patrols missing, and ended up nearly dying. It was getting increasingly difficult to work without a healer, and Fenris’ absence was sorely felt too.

When she returned home, tired, bruised, and battered, her armour and clothes a complete gory mess, Sebastian was the last person she had expected to see waiting for her in her own room.

She approached him, her shoulders tensing. Sebastian was in his usual armour, highly polished and gleaming in the soft firelight.

“What in the Void are you doing here?” she growled. “Didn’t I tell you I never wanted to see you again?”

Sebastian twitched but didn’t turn to look at her.

“I quit the Chantry,” he said in a sombre voice. “I have forsaken my vows.”

“What?” Hawke was floored. “Why in Andraste’s name would you do that?”

He turned towards her then, and the look in his brilliant blue eyes sent a shiver down her spine. Was it fear or desire? She had no chance to decide before he moved to stand in front of her. For a long moment they looked at each other, before Sebastian went down on both knees in front of her and held up a ring to her.

“This was my mother’s. I wasn’t lying when I told you I would gladly forswear myself for you, Marian. Will you do me the honour of accepting me as your husband?”

She just stood there looking at the ring for a few long minutes. Her mother’s word came back to her; _no one will ever want to marry her after that_. She blinked and looked hard at Sebastian’s face, trying to see herself as his wife. No. No, it wouldn’t work. She wanted it all. Love and tenderness, and a man that wanted her like no tomorrow. Not a proposal out of guilt.

“Are you mad, Sebastian?” she hissed. “Did it escape your notice how pissed I am at you?”

He shrugged, still holding the ring out to her.

“You wouldn’t be so pissed, as you put it, if you didn’t care, at least a little,” he countered, and her eyes widened as she thought about whether his words held any truth. Sebastian smiled. There was still a small flicker of hope for him. “All I am asking is a chance to let that little caring grow to something more,” he continued before his voice dropped to a husky murmur. “Say yes, Marian.”

She turned away from him and wrapped her arms around her waist, bowing her head. This wasn’t fair. Was she being offered a genuine chance to all the things she had thought she would never get? A man to love her perhaps, and a most importantly, a family? Babies? Oh, Maker, babies. She felt her heart clench. If this wasn’t in earnest, it would totally break her. He couldn’t dangle that carrot in front of her just to take it away. He wouldn’t be so cruel, would he?

She had to make sure. She had to make sure he really meant it. And that he knew he would have a long way in head of him before he could win her trust again, before she even thought of allowing him the liberties he had been given before.

“If this is about gaining my forgiveness, Sebastian, you have taken it a bit too far.”

“You don’t believe I wish to marry you?” he examined her face carefully, seeing the mistrust and the doubt there. “You don’t, but it’s not because of me...” he told himself, totally bewildered. “Why?”

“Why don’t you tell me the reason you want to marry me, Sebastian?”

He didn’t hesitate a moment. “Because I have been smitten with you the moment I first laid eyes on you.”

“That is not enough.”

“I love you then, is that what you wanted to hear?” he was starting to get desperate, his voice growing in volume and his thick Starkhaven brogue getting thicker with his temper. He got up and started pacing, his finger racking through his hair. “I love you. I wasn’t going to admit it. Not to a woman that sees me like something that has slithered through the grass to bite her.”

“But you did bite me, Sebastian,” she softly said. “And the bite was poisonous. It has poisoned my thoughts, my trust, the very idea I had of you.”

“Oh, Marian, I am sorry, lass. Now please forgive me and come away with me. I promise I will make you happy.” He offered her a small smile. “Both in our bed and out of it.”

She paled. She wasn’t even sure she would be able to...be intimate with him. She reached a decision that very instance. She wasn’t going to put either him or her through that. She kissed her dream of babies away, and straightened her spine.

“No” she simply said.

“Why not?” he insisted, folding his arms across his chest and obstinately refusing to budge. “Give me one good reason why not.”

“Oh, come on, Sebastian!” she stomped her foot down impatiently. “You can’t be that stupid. What will you do with me as your wife? I might never be able to...anyway, if you are going to reclaim your throne you will want heirs, right? You do know what it takes to produce them, don’t you?”

He smiled sheepishly. “I don’t see why that is a problem. I will be glad to...produce them.”

“I can’t. I can’t...let a man touch me,” she blushed and turned away again. “No one ever has. I freeze up and...anyway, the answer is no, Sebastian. I can’t be your wife.”

“You let me touch you, Marian. You let me kiss you, and you enjoyed it. We could build on that.”

She shot him a threatening look, the memory of that kiss coming back to irritate her. It was her first kiss and he had tainted the memory of it with that stupid, thoughtless bet.

“Don’t get me pissed again, Sebastian. I remember how you got that kiss, and why you wanted it.”

He took one step closer, his eyes training on her pouting lips.“I wanted you. That stupid bet just made me realise it.”

She scoffed, not letting herself believe him. “Balls.”

He took another step closer, his eyes darkening. “Say yes.”

“No,” she said, retreating. “No, Sebastian. I can’t.”

He sighed and looked away, his shoulders dropping. A minute later he raised his head again, a last, desperate plea in his eyes. “What if I let you think about it? I’ll go to Starkhaven and try to reclaim my throne. Afterwards I will return for my answer. What do you say?”

“The answer is still going to be no, Sebastian. I am not princess material, I will not be able to be...intimate with you, and I do not want to marry you.”

He grasped her hand and put the ring on her palm, closing her fingers over it. He gave her one final, frantically beseeching look.

“Just think about it,” he said before he turned and left.

 

* * *

 

Fenris had been right outside her window, which had been left open, probably by mistake, and had been holding his breath throughout the whole exchange. He let it out slowly, as Sebastian left, and closed his eyes tightly against the overwhelming sense of pain and despair that went through him. A fucking Prince, asking her to marry him, while all he had found courage to do was send her a few flowers. He was a fool. A damned fool.

He watched as Hawke open her fingers and stared at the ring. What did he have to offer her anyway? He was a lowly ex-slave, no job other than the one she gave him, no house other than the one he had been squatting in, nothing to his name other than the clothes on his back. A Prince had just thrown himself at her feet and begged her to marry him. Why would she ever choose him over Sebastian? What right did he have to pursue her, if it meant ruining her chances to have a family of her own? He wasn’t even sure he could give her that.

He turned to leave when her soft voice stopped him. He shook his head to clear it. Had she really said what he thought she had said?

“Come in, Fenris,” she said again. “I left that window open for a reason.”

 

* * *

 

_Fenris had been wrong. He had a lot to offer her, but he himself didn’t know how much. She knew of course. Years later when I asked her why she had chosen to send Sebastian away and ask Fenris in, she had had looked away, with a fond little smile on her face and replied “because he had stood in the shadows, holding his breath, and was ready to walk away if Sebastian had been what I wanted.”_

_She had looked at me then and smiled again._

_“Nobody had ever cared what I wanted before.”_

_Truer words had never been spoken._

 

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

Fenris hesitated, just for a second, before  pushing the window pane fully open and stepping carefully into the room. He straightened and approached her warily; her back was turned to him and he couldn’t read her expression to know what to expect. She was still looking at the ring in her palm, her head bent over it.

“Did you hear the whole thing?” she softly asked, turning around to look at him.

He nodded once, shocked by the vulnerable look on her face, a look that showed pain and longing. _For Sebastian? Did she still have feelings for the ex-Prince?_ His eyes fell from her face to her hand and he saw the way her fingers had tightened around the expensive ring.

“A fine catch. Why did you refuse him?” he found himself asking her.

“You heard the reasons,” she sighed and moved to her dresser to place the ring in a small wooden box. She started removing her armour then, wincing at the sight of the bloodied pauldrons and chestplate. What an appearance for a girl to receive a wedding proposal in!

She shot him a look, blushed at the way his eyes were trailing over her body and she moved behind her screen, hastily removing her tunic and undergarments, wrinkling her nose at the sweaty smell and the grime clinging to her clothes and body.

She dipped a washing cloth into a small basin and quickly cleaned herself. She didn’t hear any sound coming from him and wondered if he had left.

“Thank  you for the flowers,” she offered, “I didn’t think you would remember.”

He didn’t answer and she peeked behind the screen, making sure he was still there. He was pensively looking at his feet, a small blush tingeing his high cheekbones. She sighed and returned to her dressing, pulling on a loose tunic and a well-worn pair of breeches.

She took a deep breath before re-emerging from behind the screen. She had already decided to forgive Fenris, her heart had been softened after she had found that first flower on her window sill. A small smile graced her lips. Nobody had ever taken the trouble to do something so thoughtful for her, to try and find a way to apologise that actually meant something to her. She remembered back to the day she had told him of her love of flowers and how in a perfect world, all she would have wanted would have been a little cottage, a family and a garden full of flowers. He had obviously remembered.

Fenris watched her pile her armour in the corner and take her greatsword in her hands. She sat by the fireplace, an oiled cloth in hand and started to clean and oil her blade, shooting him sideways glances at the same time.

Fenris started pacing. He had come here to apologise, but how to go about it? What was he supposed to say? Was he supposed to explain or just blurt out his apology?

“I can see the cogs turning in your head,” she commented with a wry smile curling her lips, jerking him out of his thoughts. “Come on, spit it out already, Fenris.”

He looked at her, on her knees by the fire, her hands running over her sword. He couldn’t imagine her as a princess. But Sebastian was a catch, even he could see that. Were the reasons she had given him the truth? That she couldn’t...?

“Is it true?” he asked, hesitating again. “What you said about ...you know. Have you never...?”

The corner of her lips went up in a self-mocking smile. “I hadn’t even been kissed before Sebastian kissed me,” she admitted. “And he ruined that memory, too.”

“I am sorry, Hawke. We were all inexcusable,” at the sight of that sad smile on her face, the words seemed to jump out of his mouth on their own, desperate to erase it.  “We behaved like five year olds, all of us more concerned with our egos and with proving who was the best to think about what that idiotic bet would do to you...Please accept my sincerest apologies.”

She looked at him for a few long minutes before sighing and looking away. Fenris’ heart sunk. His head bowed. The heavy weight in his heart grew to the point that he felt it dragging him to the ground. He looked at his feet, feeling guilt and shame churning in his stomach like poison. What was he doing here anyway? He sighed again, the sound echoing much more strongly than he had bargained for in the silence of the room, making him cringe. He turned to leave, but felt a hand grasp his arm. He looked up to her face, her beautiful face that had a pleading look painted on it.

“Please don’t go, Fenris,” she pleaded. “I need to talk to somebody...and you can understand me.” She drew in a deep breath. “Can’t you?”

He nodded, too shocked to manage words. He gazed into her eyes, and it wasn’t Hawke, confident, strong Hawke that was looking back at him; it was a scared fifteen girl, that had been brutalized and  abused and left for dead. His hand came up to lightly cradle her cheek and she closed her eyes and leaned into his touch, a tremulous sigh leaving her lips. Fenris could almost hear the frantic beating of her heart, he could feel the anxiety vibrating her body. With a jolt, he realised what this was costing her, dropping her guard for him to see her fear and uncertainty, her pain and her vulnerability.

He felt humbled and unworthy of her. She was strong, so strong. So courageous. He would never have found the guts to do this, to open himself up like this and he was stunned at how much she trusted him, even after what he had done.

He took a deep breath, and wrapped his arms around her, sighing at how good her body felt against his, at how right the feel of her she fit him like a missing piece of a puzzle. She tensed for just a second, and then went lax, surrendering, and he felt humbled again. Maker, but he would do anything to prove himself deserving of her trust!

“Whatever it is you wish to tell me, Hawke,” he whispered, his breath fanning her face, “I will listen. I am here for you.”

The weight in his heart lifted at his own words, and he realised this was where he was meant to be. At her side. In her arms.

He was kissing her before he even knew what he was doing, an achingly sweet, tender brush of his lips against hers, chaste but oh, so erotic. Her lips were warm,  soft like velvet against his, the kiss crippling in its sweetness.

When it ended, they stayed embraced, their foreheads touching and their bodies trembling. It was a revelation; they had been both shocked to their boots at the incredible correctness and heart-melting sweetness of it. There had been no secret agendas behind this kiss, there had been nothing but the need to soothe and comfort.

It was a promise of things to come, a moment of complete gentleness for both of them; two people that had each gone through incredible amounts of pain and violence, finding solace in each other.

She catalogued it in her memory as her first real, loving kiss and he as the first he could remember.

“Thank you...” she whispered and he shook his head, too stricken to even speak, not trusting his voice to come out as anything other than a pathetic squeak.

He kissed her again instead, this time his lips more insistent, more ardent, and she moaned before opening her mouth under his and allowing him entry. Her taste exploded in his mouth, so breathtaking, so addictive, so perfectly her. He moaned, a rugged, tortured sound and deepened the contact, sliding his tongue against hers, exploring her sweet, hot mouth as if his life depended on it.

She started trembling and Fenris was jerked back to reality, pulling back to look at her, afraid he would see panic on her face. Hawke opened eyes that were dilated and hazed with desire. It took her a few moments to grasp that he had stopped kissing her and she pouted.

“Why did you stop?” she grumbled and his lips quirked up. “I liked it.”

“I thought I had scared you,” he explained.

“I can handle kissing, apparently,” she commented with a wry smile. “I don’t know about the rest though. You will have to teach me...if you’re interested, that is.”

He nearly groaned at the thought. No, no thoughts of teaching her, not just yet, lest he scare her by his hunger for her. Instead he grabbed her hand and dragged her in front of the fireplace, fighting with everything in him to resist the temptation to kiss her until her lips were bruised.

“Let’s talk first,” he mumbled, his voice husky. “I’ll kiss you some more afterwards.”

She sighed and sat down, her shoulders hunching and her head bowing.

“I don’t think you will feel like it afterwards...” she said softly. “It’s not a pretty tale.”

 

* * *

 

She had been right. Hours later, Hawke was lying with her head on his chest, totally exhausted by the emotional turmoil of recounting the story of her ordeal to him. She had told him everything,  had left no detail out, what they had done to her, how she had felt, how her father had rescued her. She had told him about the brands and the whippings and the cuts on her legs. His markings had started pulsing bright blue with rage and he had started cursing; she had looked to him with wide eyes and he’d had to beg her to keep talking.

 At some point he’d felt the need to get up and start breaking things, and his body had gone tense like a drawn bow at the humiliation and pain those animals had put her through. He had pulled her to him, and she struggled wildly, still caught in her memories, her body freezing with dread. He had held her and murmured soothing nonsense in her ear until she had relaxed against him and allowed him to hold her, a surge of relief going through him.

She lay in his arms now, totally drained, her voice hoarse. But she felt at peace. She felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders, a weight she had been living with for so long that she no longer noticed it. It was its absence now that made her realise it had been there in the first place. She should have talked about it to somebody years ago, she knew that now. But she had been afraid. She knew perfectly well none of it had been her fault- she had always known. But she couldn’t drown that small voice in her mind telling her she was unworthy, soiled, impure. She couldn’t erase the memory of piteous glances from people that knew, she couldn’t forget how her own family had taken a step back from her after it had happened.

She waited, her head on his heart, for his words, for any comment. Deep inside her,  in that small dark corner of her soul where that acidic, malicious little voice resided, the fear that he would look at her with revulsion raised its ugly head and numbed her heart. Her breath caught and she waited for him to speak like a bird frozen in front of a poisonous snake, knowing full well that the venom to come would kill it, but unable to move.

When after a pause that seemed to last hours he opened his mouth to speak, she was too scared to realise at first what he was telling her. She had been bracing herself, terrified that he would now think of her as spoiled goods, and walk away. So it took a few seconds for her to realise that Fenris wasn’t offering her any platitudes, wasn’t making accusations, wasn’t even showing her pity.

What he did do was to tell her about his own ordeal, in that gravely, silky voice, about all the torture and degradation he had gone through in the years he remembered as a slave in the hands of the Magisters. His voice shook with hesitation at first, and she could feel how much this was costing him too, but Fenris kept talking, sometimes his voice rising with rage, sometimes almost breaking with anguish. It was her turn to shake in anger and run soothing hands over his body as he bared his soul to her just as she had to him.

Fenris stopped talking just as the Chantry bells were striking twelve strokes. He realised he had been talking for hours and his throat was as dry as a desert. He had never opened himself to another living person like that, but he had no regrets. He had lain his soul bare, there was nothing about him that she now didn’t know.

Her honest courage deserved nothing less. Nothing less than complete openness.

He kissed the tears that had run down her face at some point and she looked up at him, a sad smile curling her lips.

“We’re birds of a feather, you know...we should really stick together.”

He smiled too, and pulled her even closer, until her body was virtually curled up on his lap. She grew tense again, her body shuddering wildly, but didn’t fight him, and in time she relaxed, and wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her head in the crook of his shoulder.

Instant, hot arousal went through him, hardening him to the point of breaking, and although he had been planning to tell her that they needed to take things slowly, his body took over and he claimed her mouth with a groan, without even thinking about it.

“So... you _do_ feel like kissing?” Hawke teased against his mouth.

“Always,” Fenris whispered, and deepened the kiss.

* * *

 They must have fallen asleep at some point, totally worn out by the emotional strain their talk had put them through. As the room grew colder and the morning light started seeping in through the curtains, Fenris woke up, his body tensing with the familiar waking terror of a slave that had slept in for too long and was now going to be punished. It took a few seconds to realise where he was, to take in his surroundings and the first thing he noticed was how lovely Hawke looked, how peaceful, sleeping in his arms.

A smile blossomed and spread on his face at her sight; short hair tousled and flying in all directions, her mouth slightly open, adorable soft snoring noises escaping her. He shifted a bit to make her more comfortable and she protested in her sleep, burrowing even deeper into him, her face burying in the crook of his neck.

Fenris felt his heart constrict painfully and then expand, as if making more space in it for her. A lump formed in his throat. He had never expected to find himself falling in love with her. Lust he could understand, desire and longing too. But love? Love was alien. Love was scary. Still shaken by both her story and the retelling of his, he felt doubt and apprehension flood his mind. Was he ready for this? For her? Could he handle it? Could he be the man she needed?

He licked suddenly dry lips and savoured her taste, still lingering on his mouth. They had been kissing late into the rising dawn, until both their mouths had felt bruised. They had done no more than kissing. Although his hands had been itching to stray and caress her body, pet her, explore her, his mind had forbidden it, insisting it was too soon. She hadn’t  seemed to mind, taking whatever he was willing to give her without question and revelling in it. Unable to function, indeed! Just the honesty of her response had been enough to test his control more than once. He felt a shiver run down his body at the delicious memory of her body trembling from desire in his arms and the sounds he had been able to draw from her, moans and gasps and whispered pleas.

He felt a bit smug that he could make her respond like that, and more than little apprehensive at the thought of having to teach her the rest of the steps of this age old dance. Would she be able to trust him that much, to welcome him into her body, or would the memories resurface to poison their first time together? Would he be able to show the gentleness and care she needed? He was not a gentle man, he was too well accustomed to violence and pain. But she made him want to be gentle, she made him want to be tender and that need was enough to scare him stiff.

He realised she had grown completely still and looked down to find her awake, staring at him, a little frown on her face.

“I can see the cogs turning, again, Fenris,” she said instead of good morning. “I won’t blame you if you... you want nothing more to do with me.”

He gave her a surprised look and then irritation painted a frown on his face too.

“Is this the impression I gave you last night, Hawke?” he asked, his voice still gravely from sleep and she cringed and tried to pull away. He refused to let her go, tightening his arms around her.

“Let me go,” she struggled a bit, before resigning. “I can see the disgust on your face.” She closed her eyes and swallowed hard. “Was I ...too forward? Is that it? Did I behave like a whore?”

“MARIAN! For the love of the Maker!” he gasped, totally stunned. “I was not disgusted. You were glorious last night,ma dulcis , don’t ever say that again!”

She opened her eyes then, going completely still.

“What did you call me?” she asked, her voice still desperate but her face hopeful.

“My sweet. Ma dulcis. Please Hawke, I am not disgusted by you.”

She returned to his arms, burying her face in his neck and shocked him again by starting to cry. _Oh Maker, what have I done wrong again?_

“Can you say it again?” she pleaded in a small, hesitant voice, the sound almost lost in her quiet sobbing.

His heart melted. It literally melted into a little gooey puddle on the floor. _Oh, Hawke_... he thought, _my fearless, gorgeous Hawke_. So starved for affection, so grateful for it, so needy. Almost as much as him.

He opened his mouth and for the next hour gave her every endearment he could think of, in five different languages, Hawke slowly repeating them after him.

They ended up kissing again, long into the morning, until Orana had knocked on the door to check on her mistress. They had bolted away from one another like naughty teenagers being caught necking and then they both blushed. 

“Will you stay for breakfast?” she asked him timidly, but he just shook his head and turned to the window. The lump in his throat was threatening to choke him again. The realisation he had spend an entire night kissing Marian Hawke, holding her in his arms, was filling his mind with panic. He wanted to stay, Maker he did, but he also didn’t. He needed time. Time to unravel that spindly maze of emotions from inside his chest.

She seemed to understand, as if the night she had spend in his arms and the stories they had exchanged had somehow attuned her to his emotions. Her head dropped and her smile faltered.

“I see...” she said, bitterness tightening her lips. She turned around, trying to hide her disappointment, but he understood anyway. Perhaps he had become attuned to her feelings as well, after all. A heavy surge of pure male protectiveness surged through him, momentarily erasing his doubts.

“I’ll be back tonight,” he promised before he could stop himself and watched a happy smile brighten her face. He smiled back, happy to have reassured her, and then frowned as her smile faltered and died once again.

“Ermm...” she fidgeted and blushed. “I don’t think I am ready for...” she shot him a desperately nervous look and then blushed some more and looked away. “I want you to come, but I don’t think I can...I might never be able to be...intimate. You have to know that. It’s only fair.”

Fenris sighed and lifted her chin up with his finger, gazing deep into her eyes.

“We’ll take things slowly,” he promised her. “I am just as uncomfortable with being touched as you are, Hawke. We’ll teach each other.”

* * *

_I learned about all that from the Rivaini. She had said she’d had the time of her life teasing Fenris about his blush and his nervousness when she had come to her for advice. But she had also appreciated the fact he had taken the trouble._

_I beat  myself with a stick for missing that...Fenris asking for sex tips from Isabela. I wish I had been a fly on the wall listening to that conversation, ha-ha. I learned later that Hawke had done the same thing and Isabela demanded we should call her the Looove Doctor afterwards. Pronounced just like that, with a drawled o. Looove._

_Truth be told though, I was as nervous as a parent sending his daughter out on her first date. What if he was rough with her? What if she was rough with him? I didn’t know who of the two of them to be more worried for._

_Turns out, I should have been worried for both of them._


	14. Chapter 14

Isabela and Aveline were more than surprised when they saw Fenris arrive the next day, as they were preparing to depart for Darktown, to gather information about that dwarf, Javaris, and the poisonous gas the Arishok had warned Hawke about.

Their surprise turned to shock when instead of a greeting, Fenris ran his hand through Hawke’s hair and gave her a small, fond grin. She smiled and blushed prettily, and their shock turned to outright astonishment. She told Fenris she didn’t need him that day, and he took it good-naturedly,- another shock for both women, who were gathering their jaws off the floor by then- and went into the Hanged man to wait for their return.

“Hawke,” he turned to her before going inside. “You should really consider forgiving Anders, too, ma dulcis. You need a healer, even if it’s that abomination.”

“Ma...what? Was that actually an endearment?” Aveline muttered to the pirate. “Am I hearing right?”

Isabela shook her head as if to say she had no idea and then raised her arm to Aveline.

“A good pinch if you please, Guard Captain. I think my drinks may have gotten to my head. I’m hallucinating.”

“You and I both, wench,” Aveline murmured, a look of wonder on her face.

Hawke turned to them with a small smile on her face. “What makes you say that?”

Isabela and Aveline exchanged a look. “Was that really Fenris?” Aveline asked, her voice still in awe.

“Who could it have been?”

“His good twin, perhaps?” Isabela smiled. “What happened?”

“It’s a long story,” Hawke blushed again. “Come, let’s go pick Merrill up. I have a lot to tell you.”

Aveline wrapped a hand around her shoulders. “Well, that is an understatement. Details, Hawke, now!”

She gave them both a brilliant, happy smile and started talking.

* * *

Anders waited until the women had left before going into the Hanged Man. Varric and Fenris were sitting together at the table in Varric’s suite talking in hushed tones over their drinks. The elf had a slight smile on his face, and a blush was tingeing his high cheekbones.

Varric raised his head when he came in.

“Hey, hey,” he held a hand out to Anders. “This is the forgiven idiots’ club. You, Serah, are not a member.”

Anders ignored him and plopped on one of the benches.

“That’s because I am not an idiot,” he said.

“Said the blooming idiot,” Varric added. “You are not forgiven either, yet. Fenris here, on the other side...phew...” Varric whistled. “More than forgiven. Positively exonerated.”

“Oooohhh,” Anders said mockingly. “Big words. Bigger than you. Careful they don’t run away with you. You’ll never catch them.”

He then turned to Fenris. “Well?”

Fenris’ blush grew even darker and he gave a nod. Anders’ lips tightened, although he smiled. His smile was fake, forced though. He had seen the exchange in front of the Hanged Man, and had realized immediately what had happened. It was more difficult to take than he had thought. That night, when Fenris and he had talked, he had graciously relinquished all claim to Hawke in favour of the elf, but he hadn’t bargained on how painful it would be to see them together.

“Fine,” he ground out. “I’m glad she got to talk to you.”

Varric was looking from the elf to the mage, puzzled and surprised. What in the Stone...?

Anders got up and went to the door, a defeated air around him.

“I asked her to forgive you,” Fenris shouted behind his back. “Maybe you should go see her.”

Anders didn’t even deign to look at him. Inside, Justice was raging that it wasn’t fair the elf was forgiven and he wasn’t. He clenched his teeth against the nagging, insistent voice and squared his shoulders. No. He was not putting himself through this again. He had already seen her face radiant over another man, Sebastian, that night they had been returning from the ball; he was NOT going to do it with the elf too.

“Mage?” Fenris’ voice was gruff and disapproving. “Did you hear me?”

“I heard you,” Anders replied as he was crossing the threshold. “I just don’t have to listen to you...” he added in a murmur, speaking to his own self.

Damn that blighted mongrel of an elf to the emptiest, darkest corner of the Void!

* * *

Isabela and Aveline had settled down in front of Hawke’s fireplace and were busy discussing what they had learned about the poisonous gas; Aveline insisted they headed to Lowtown right away, while Isabela, rightly concerned, had argued that it could wait, noting the dark circles under Hawke’s eyes.

Hawke returned to them, wearing fresh clothes and another set of armour, having left the one she had been wearing since morning to be cleaned by Bodahn. She had more blood _on_ her than _in_ her lately.

“Come on,” she frowned as she saw the other two women sprawled in front of the fireplace. “Let’s go pick Fenris and Varric up, and go to Lowtown.”

“Aren’t you bushed?” Isabela asked. “You look exhausted.”

“People are in danger, Isabela. That gas is highly toxic; the Arishok warned us thousands might die.”

Isabela got up, stretched and rolled her shoulders. “Damn... and I was hoping we might get you to give us more information on that yummy elf of yours. Is he a good kisser? How big is his...?”

“ISABELA!” Hawke interrupted her, going beetroot red and her eyes shooting wide.

“What?” Isabela grinned cheekily. “You didn’t see it? Oh, and I was wondering how far those markings go...”

“This is tactless, even for you, whore!” Aveline spat out.

“Tactless?” Isabela crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Why? Because I tell things by their name? Because I don’t walk on eggshells around her? She was raped. Not her fault, but she was. She is practically a virgin, never been touched, and now she will soon get laid by that _gorgeous_ elf... She _IS_ going to see his cock, isn’t she?”

Aveline and Isabela stared each other off, ready to get into a heated argument again, but Hawke interrupted them, by clearing her voice.

“About that....I might need some advice.”

Both women turned to look at her. She was so red steam might soon start coming out of her ears.

“When that time comes...not yet, but when it comes...I have no idea what to do...” Hawke fidgeted. “Some help?”

Isabela laughed and linked arms with Hawke. “Sweetie, I’d demonstrate if I could, but I doubt captain Man Hands here would cooperate.”

Aveline answered with a gagging sound as she followed them to the door. Isabela laughed again and shot Aveline a cheeky grin. “Oh, you’d love it and you know it.”

“Watch it, whore.” Aveline said shaking her fist at her.

“Why? Is it going to do anything exciting?”

Hawke giggled like...well, like a girl.

A girl in love.

* * *

As they were making their way down the steps to Lowtown, Aveline momentarily pulled her back, just as Isabela was slipping into the Hanged Man.

“Hawke,” she muttered. “Are you sure? About Fenris, I mean?”

The smile Hawke had been sporting during the past half hour dimmed and died. She suddenly felt a wave of loathing for Aveline choke her up, although she knew the red-haired woman was only concerned for her. And rightly so. But why did she have to ruin the happy bubble she was living in since last night? Why did she have to make her doubt?

Against her will, she allowed herself a moment of clarity, a moment where her anger pushed the giggling, giddy joy she had been feeling aside. A moment where fear came back to choke her, where uncertainty and insecurity rose inside her like a dark foreboding.

“No,” she whispered, her voice lost and small. “No, I’m not sure, Aveline.” She looked away, towards the door of The Hanged Man where Isabela had disappeared into. The pirate had been giving her risqué, saucy tips that had made her blush and giggle uncharacteristically for the last half hour. Why couldn’t Aveline had left her like that, with eyes wide in shock and ...longing? Why ruin it for her?

She turned to the Guard-Captain, her lips firmed into a tight angry line.

“I won't cower and tremble anymore, Aveline,” she hissed. “I will take this chance to feel normal, to feel like a woman. Why aren’t you happy for me?”

Aveline sighed and looked to the ground. She felt like a heel for ruining her bubbly mood, but she wouldn’t be a real friend if she didn’t voice her doubts. She owed it to Hawke, even if she seemed furious with her right now.

“He is as ...damaged as you are, Hawke.”

“Don’t call me that!” Hawke stepped menacingly towards her, her fists clenched tightly, anger radiating off her in waves. “I am sick of being the poor damaged, soiled little girl. I am sick of living with this fear! I am sick of being half the woman I could be!”

Aveline cringed. “I am sorry, Hawke, I didn’t mean it like this.” She put a hand on the other warrior’s shoulder, but Hawke shrugged it off. “I care for you. I am just worried you might get hurt again.”

Hawke felt her ire disappear. Aveline was a good friend, but she didn’t understand her. She couldn’t possibly grasp how lonely, how desperately lonely she was. She shot the other woman a sideways glance, and remember a young templar, looking at the redhead with eyes fogged with the Blight, love and sadness in his expression, before a blade pierced his heart.

Aveline had found no one else after Wesley had died, had kept to herself and to her memories.

Maybe she did understand after all.

Hawke sighed and braved a small smile. “I am going into this with my eyes open, Aveline. If I get hurt...it’s fine... At least I will be alive, even for a while.”

Aveline nodded, still doubtful, and followed her into the Hanged Man.

 

* * *

 

_I was worried too, of course, but said nothing. She had just forgiven me and I had been desperate to return into her good graces. Aveline was the only one brave enough to voice her concern and Hawke had been angry at her for days to come._

_The Rivaini though a good fuck would fix everything, but then again, she thought a good fuck was the answer to everything, from the blues to a fever. Ah, that’s not fair...She wasn’t stupid, she told me later she had her doubts too, but didn’t want to burst Hawke’s happy bubble._

_As for Fenris...I think he had the most doubts of all of us. He had opened up to her, allowed her to cross into his closely guarded personal thoughts and feelings. Was he already regretting it? I don’t know. I know that under his slight blush and faltering smile as I teased him all the way to that back alley, there were traces of fear. I am too good an observer of people not to have noticed (yes, I know, I’m awesome that way)._

_She nearly died in that back alley, with that damned Qunari poison gas. We had to call on Anders to save her life._

_Enter Blondie._

_But that is a whole other story._

 

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

Anders was just about ready to turn in for the night, after a long afternoon of treating everything from runny noses to a strange fever that was running rampant through the population of Darktown, claiming young and old alike.

He felt drained, both physically and emotionally. Thoughts of Hawke in that elf’s arms kept attacking him like vicious animals all day, taking bites out of his soul. Why in the name of the Maker had he agreed to step back in favour of the elf? Why? What had possessed him?

He would never put Hawke and her needs first, he wasn’t so selfless, that’s what he had told the elf... But didn’t his very stepping back prove that this wasn’t true? Or did it just prove he was a spineless coward?

He had been at the Hanged Man earlier, when Hawke had come to pick Varric and Fenris up to go check that Lowtown alley for the stolen Qunari poison. He had been forced to watch as she had run her hand through the elf’s white hair with affection on her face. She had then turned to him and shot him an irritated look.

“Are you ever going to find the balls to apologise properly, Anders?” she had asked, and the damned elf had smirked, making him want to zap him till he danced the Remigold. He had stumbled through an apology, which she had accepted with a stern look, feelings of shame and embarrassment going through him. Maker, how he had wanted to punch the elf’s face until that smug smirk had been wiped off!

Varric had shot him a pitying look as they were leaving; Isabela, Aveline and Fenris had accompanied her, as well. He had watched them go and hated himself for everything that had happened: the bet, that stupid, stupid bet, the fact that he hadn’t gone to apologise in person, his promise to the elf.

Anders rubbed a tired hand across his forehead. Sod it all off, as Varric would say. He still had feelings for her. He still wanted her. But he had promised to help that blighted elf claim her and now he wanted to kick himself where it would really, really hurt.

“Anders!” Isabela burst in, running at full speed and collapsed on a crate, trying to regain her breath. She started coughing, and spat some blood along with it.

Anders shot to her side, all his previous thoughts forgotten. She had a sick, pale look to her, and her breathing was wheezy.

“What’s wrong? Isabela?” he tried to lift her up and help her to a cot but she shook her head, coughed up some more blood and grabbed him from the collar of his robes.

“Hawke...” she whizzed. “Poison gas...Lowtown...Go, GO. Her estate!”

Anders took one good look at her, trying to determine if she was well enough to be left alone. She staggered to her feet and he tried to steady her, but she pushed his hands away, and shoved him towards the door.

“I’ll be...” another cough, and more blood spluttering on her hands, “...OK. Go. Hawke...help Hawke. Her estate.”

Anders didn’t hesitate a moment longer.

* * *

Fenris burst through the door of her estate, carrying Hawke in his arms...She was coughing heavily, blood trickling out of her mouth. Fenris felt his own lungs burning, but she was much, much worse, having taken huge amounts of that noxious gas into her as she had been trying to close those accursed barrels. Four of them, there had been four of them...he berated himself, feeling small and helpless and so, so guilty. In the heat of the battle, he hadn’t even thought of what coming so near those barrels would do to her.

Aveline collapsed as soon as they had entered through the door, and a frantic, anxious Bodahn had rushed to her, before he had spotted Hawke in the elf’s arms, deadly pale, her breathing wheezy and labored, blood spewing out of her mouth in a fine spray every time she was racked by a wrenching cough. He left out a cry and rushed to his mistress, wringinghis hands in complete and utter panic. Varric stumbled in behind them, slightly better than the rest of the group.

Anders burst through the cellar entrance to Darktown, and Fenris had never been happy to see the mage before. But he was happy now, almost delirious with it. He bellowed to the mage, and Anders took Hawke into his arms just before Fenris too collapsed to the floor.

Everything went dark.

When Fenris next opened his eyes, he was lying on the couch in Hawke’s study. It took seconds for him to get his bearings and to frantically look around him, trying to determine where Hawke was. He saw Aveline, sleeping on the other couch, and Isabela on the rug in front of the fireplace, still coughing, even in unconsciousness. His chest was still burning, but he could draw breath in without thinking the cough would make him spew little pieces of his lungs.

He got up on unsteady legs, and supporting himself on the wall, slowly made it to her bedroom, dreading what he would find. If he was feeling so badly, what must Hawke be like, when she had inhaled so much more of that poison than him?

The first clue to his question was the empty bottles of lyrium potions thrown outside her door. He walked in, barely standing, to the sight of Anders, jittery with all the potions he had consumed, almost addled by the amount of lyrium coursing through his veins. Hawke was lying on her side, barely breathing, blood pooling around her face.

“Hawke...” Fenris managed to whisper, before he slumped down to the floor again. He watched in dread and awe as Anders used spell after spell on her, his hands glowing blue, his whole body trembling with the strain. If there had ever been a moment where Fenris had ever been inclined to grudgingly admit gratefulness for the existence of magic, this was definitely it. He felt his eyelids grow heavy again and with a groan tried to get up and crawl towards her, before passing out again.

The healer shot one look his way, and then ignored him. The elf would live. Hawke...he wasn’t so sure about her.

* * *

It was hours later that he could find the strength and will to deal with the rest of them, once Hawke was relatively stable. He took care of the women first, Aveline and Isabela, ignoring the elf. If he had been strong enough to make it to the upper floor and to crawl to her side, he could wait. Varric was much better, and to Anders’ questioning look, he had just shrugged.

“Hey, one of the benefits of being short. I kept to the ground,” he explained.

Anders stood above Fenris now, and cringed at the thought that passed momentarily through his mind, rooted itself there and refused to go. _You could leave him like this_ , he thought. _He could die and nobody would blame you_. He looked to the bed, to Hawke laying there, so lovely even covered in blood and sickly pale, and then to the elf, who had passed out a few feet away from her, his hand outstretched toward her.

Cursing himself a blue streak under his breath, he used the last reserves of his manna to cleanse as much of the poison from inside Fenris’ body and then carried him, half pulling, half dragging him, to the bed. He helped the lanky elf lay down next to Hawke and pulled the blanket over both of them.

He shot one last look at them, one last vehement curse to himself and went to find a bed to rest.

The next day they were all desperately ill, vomiting and coughing with the effects of the poison. Anders reassured them it was their bodies’ natural way of trying to get rid of the poison, gave them lots of fluids to drink and stood vigil over Hawke, whostill hadn’t woken.

Fenris felt wretched. His head was spinning, his stomach wouldn’t settle down and his throat, lungs and eyes felt like someone had lit a fire in them. He stayed in Hawke’s bed, too ill to move, and didn’t even find the strength to complain when her dwarven servants stripped him of his armor and sponged him down.

He had to watch while Anders did the same for Hawke.

His eyes narrowed, he watched the healer’s hands as they tenderly run a wet cloth over every inch of her body; her nude, gloriously curvy body. He watched as Anders’ hands stilled for a few seconds every time he found a hidden scar on her body: a bite mark on her breast, long silvery scars that could have been made by nothing else than a whip on her back, a slavers mark burned into her buttocks, the slashing lines on her thighs. His breath caught, his eyes started burning even more.

He looked up to the healer’s eyes and saw tears gleaming there. That made the desire to cut his hands off for touching HIS Hawke subside just a tiny bit. He closed his eyes with a groan. If he had to go on seeing this, he might start screaming. It was agony. Jealousy and possessiveness raged inside him, making his throat burn even more with the low growl that was starting to rumble in his chest. He knew it had to be done, it was to make Hawke more comfortable, but he resented the mage for doing it himself. It felt as if he was taking advantage of the situation to touch and ogle Hawke and to torment him as well. Anders gave him a contemptuous look, his lip curled in disgust. “If you can’t take it, don’t watch, you mongrel!” he sneered. Fenris complied, knowing that any minute now he would use what was left of his strength to put a fist through the healer’s chest.

So much for the precarious truce they had established.

When he opened his eyes again, Anders was gone and they were alone. He couldn’t fight the urge anymore. As dreadfully as he felt, he couldn’t resist any longer. He inched closer to her, wrapped a hand around her and brought her flush into his body.

Instant, hot arousal. Nice to know his body could respond even half dead with sickness and worry.

He moaned at the feel of her flesh against his. The lyrium brands sang at the close contact. He had been expecting pain, not that soft, pleasant humming. He nuzzled his face into the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply the scent of her freshly cleaned skin. He left a contended sigh and relaxed. Heaven. Absolute bliss. If there had ever been a home for him, this was what it must have felt like to return to it.

He sighed contentedly again, his arms tightening around her, and fell asleep.

* * *

Sebastian was doing his final preparations to leave for Starkhaven when he learned about the Lowtown incident, not paying too much attention to the guards gossiping outside his window, until Hawke’s name  came up. He stilled, listening intently. Apparently she had saved a whole district, but was very ill. The guard’s words were full of admiration and a bit of sadness.

“What a woman...” one of them said. “I heard she is dying from the poison. Such a shame!”

Without a second thought, he abandoned his last arrangements and ran to her estate. He had to see her, he had to make sure she was alright. He would be gone from the city for Maker knew how long, trying to reclaim his throne. He just had to make sure she was okay before he left.

* * *

Fenris kept drifting in and out of consciousness for the rest of the day. He mainly woke up when the mage entered the room to check on Hawke, as if there was some anti-mage mechanism in him that alerted him to the other man’s presence. He kept his eyes on the abomination at all times, not trusting him near her.

Apart from the fact that Hawke hadn’t woken up though, Anders attention showed. She didn’t look as pale as she had the previous day, in fact  her color was better than Fenris’. Her breathing was deep and even, no trace of coughing disturbing her sleep. Anders replied to one of his questioning looks that she would be just fine, if she woke up.

Fenris didn’t like ifs where Hawke and her well-being was concerned.

He stayed awake long enough for Bodahn to spoon feed him some soup, to his everlasting embarrassment, and to see Varric, that came in, took one look at them laying naked on the bed together and remarked that there were worse ways to spend one’s recovery.

Then he fell asleep again. And at some point, while he was sleeping, finally feeling somewhat stronger after having kept some food down, Hawke woke up.

She felt slightly ill and woozy, and blinked slowly to clear her head. There was something next to her, emitting warmth and she instinctively burrowed deeper into it, almost purring in content. But then, suddenly, she realised this something had a heartbeat and jolted in surprise.

Fenris. He was lying next to her. She blinked again, totally perplexed as to how he had gotten there before the events of the last day she could remember crashed into her. She remembered breathing in that noxious, foul smelling gas, she recollected passing out and only vaguely being aware of being carried to her home by Fenris.

She looked at him again, holding her breath. His handsome face was relaxed in sleep, his customary scowl replaced by a peaceful expression that made him look younger. His long black lashes cast shadows on his cheekbones and his sensuous mouth was slightly open. One hand was under his head and the other was loosely wrapped around her. She gasped as she realised they were both naked and tried to pull away in alarm.

His eyes slowly opened, and she found herself staring into his moss green eyes, mesmerised. They spent minutes that felt like hours looking at each other, holding their breaths, as if the moment could be shattered by a careless exhale.

And then his lips curled upward on one side and he leaned in and kissed her, a tender brush of his lips against hers, a sweet and welcoming caress. She instantly relaxed, melting into his embrace and the next instant his arms tightened around her, and she was pulled flush onto his body, naked flesh against naked flesh making them both leave a little startled gasp, not in alarm but in the stunned realization of how _good_ , how right it felt.

Slowly she relaxed in his arms, and allowed herself to take the whole new, delicious experience in. His body was hard where hers was soft, finely chiseled muscle against her soft curves; she had muscles of her own, but nothing compared to his lean masculinity. She blushed as she felt something hard and soft at the same time, hot as a living furnace, brush against her thigh. Oh. That was...she blushed even more, but couldn’t resist the urge to take a peek under the covers. She excused herself in her mind by saying she only did it to answer Isabela’s questions and she heard him chuckle.

“Like what you see?” he purred.

Amazingly she did. No revulsion, no horror, no bad memories. His words registered and she gasped and let the blanket fall down again, before hiding her flaming red face in the hollow of his throat. He moaned, a small, barely-there sound and his arms tightened even more around her; the action caused her nipples to mesh against his steely chest and pebble instantly with desire. One of his thighs slipped between her own and she gasped again, every sensation new and frightening, but also amazingly correct.

She smiled up to him and couldn’t fight the urge to kiss him, timidly at first, but more and more passionately as she slowly gained a new-found sense of womanly confidence. It helped that he was sighing under her lips, and that his hands weren’t completely steady too.

“I like everything I see,” she whispered.

“Well, I don’t!” a cold voice remarked from the doorway and they both jerked apart, Hawke nearly screeching in that ridiculous girly way she abhorred, clutching the sheet to her body.

Sebastian was standing at the door, scowling, his bow drawn and an arrow notched, aimed straight at Fenris’ heart.

Before Hawke and Fenris had any chance to get over their surprise and mortification, Sebastian twitched wildly, the bow leaving his hands, the arrow falling harmlessly on the floor.

Anders appeared behind him, his fingers still sparkling with electricity. He grabbed the tall human that was still trying to stop his muscles from twitching from the current of electricity that had gone through him and shoved him towards the hall.

“A word with you, priest,” he growled, his voice both sarcastic and menacing. “I have been a bad boy. I think I need to confess my sins.”

The blond mage tossed a look over his shoulder, scowled at Fenris and winked at Hawke.

“Get dressed, doves,” he said, his sarcastic tone barely masking his displeasure at their intimacy. “Bianca and I will be catching up with the Prince.”

 

* * *

 

_Maker bless Anders, I had been sleeping when that damned Choir Boy showed up and let himself in as if he was the fucking master of the estate. I got royally pissed he interrupted them. Things might have turned out differently if they...anyway if they had, you know... Done the nasty. Bumped uglies. Done the deed. Ground the old grindstone._

_But they didn’t, and when Anders and yours truly got through with pummeling the Prince to a nice pulp, no help from Justice too, they got downstairs, both dressed, and looking as embarrassed as two kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar. Hawke at least did. The elf looked more smug than embarrassed._

_Rivaini of course riled them a bit, asking Hawke anatomical details about the elf and making her blush. Awww, my sweet, sweet Hawke!  She was so cute when she was blushing. Fenris thought so too, if the smug smile on his face getting bigger was any indication._

_But I digress. As I was saying, it was a shame they hadn’t...consummated their relationship that day. As it turned out, after that whole Hadriana fiasco...anyway, it was a fiasco. A veritable disaster._

_Why do I keep torturing myself remembering all this?_

_Ah, crap. I’m too old for this shit._

 

 

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

The days that followed could easily be called the happiest of her life. The whole city was singing her praises, the Arishok and the Viscount had both sent her their appreciation for clearing up the whole poison gas incident and, most importantly, none of her people had died. Isabela and Aveline spent their convalescence in her estate too, being taken care of Anders, and Varric dropped by to keep them all company every day.  She spend her recovery surrounded by friends, Fenris by her side, stealing kisses and caresses whenever he could.

And Sebastian had left, humiliated, without asking to speak to her again, after Anders had made it perfectly, if a bit forcefully, clear he was not welcome at her house. It would be months since she would have to deal with him again, and she would just tell him no again and give him his ring back. It was unfortunate that things had to end like that, she would have preferred if none of the events of the previous month had happened. Sebastian had been a friend. She was going to miss that.

Fenris...Fenris was like another person with her, after that night they had spent opening up to each other. He smiled at her more readily and rather than draw away from her physically, he took every chance to be near her, to touch her, kiss her or just share a soft caress. She slowly found herself relaxing around him; she didn’t jump a foot in the air when his arms wrapped around her, or when he whispered something decidedly naughty in her ear. She was still wary, fear and shyness making her look almost unresponsive, but he paid no heed to it. He was patient, and sweet and so ...so un-Fenris like, it sometimes made her wonder if he had changed so much, or if that softer, tender side had always been there, hidden under the surface, and she just hadn’t seen it.

Although he had been much more reserved in front of the rest of the members of their party, all of them had noticed. Varric had playfully commended that he was “gently breaking her in, like a skittish little filly”. She had found his comment a bit offensive, but damn him to the Void if it wasn’t true. Then of course he had gone off to call Fenris a “hawk whisperer” and had gotten himself nearly thrown out by an angry elf.

Sometimes, she would get that ugly feeling of foreboding in the pit of her stomach, especially when she remembered Aveline’s warnings, but it was quickly and ruthlessly shoved aside. She was feeling...normal. Andraste be her guide, she would take this chance to feel like a normal woman for as long as it lasted.

Even so, she couldn’t help but feel intimidated. This was all so confusing. Fenris was not acting like himself. She was not acting like herself. Everything had changed and shifted, like an image distorted by a broken mirror, and she found herself wishing she would wake up and it would all be a dream, because she had no idea what to expect, not from him, not from herself. She realised it was cowardly of her to wish for thing to be as they once were, rather than face up to the new situation; she was torn between the brave, courageous side of her personality that insisted she should grab the bull by its horns and just deal with it and the scared, trembling little girl inside her that found all this so intimidating and confusing.

She had spent these past few days feeling like a split personality, like watching herself lead an alternative life, so far removed of what she had been used to. She had caught herself being witty and naughty, full of amusement and joy, like she had been as a young girl, before life had taught her what sometimes happened to naïve little girls who though everything was sunshine and butterflies. She had caught herself embracing that little girl, coaxing her out, while in the past the memory of how innocent, how naïve she had once been had only filled her with disgust at herself.

The others had all noticed the difference, had all noticed her feminine, girlish side trying to emerge, and they had reacted in their own way: Isabela had been playful and teasing, Varric had been charmed, Anders had been ecstatic, Merrill her usual naïve and clueless self, but immensely happy for her, and Aveline...Aveline had been cautious. Cautious and reserved, like she didn’t trust the slow transformation of both Hawke and Fenris.

Three more days went past like this, Hawke gaining more and more of her womanly confidence every day, Fenris barely leaving her side. What she was more amazed by though, was the fact that he had slept in her bed every night, holding her to him, although she had been bundled up in a heavy nightgown every time. She went to bed with his kisses and gentle caresses every night and woke up to find him gone every morning.

She couldn’t understand him. What was it that he wanted of her? Was it just her body? His tenderness every single day and the long talks they had by the fire attested to the opposite, making her chest swell with a feeling she dared not name. But then again, she awoke to find herself alone in bed every morning and the feeling of foreboding came back to haunt her. Why did he leave her? Was the cover of darkness the only time he could let himself free with her? Was he toying with her?

On the evening of that last night, Hawke was coming into the study, when she paused by the half opened door. Aveline and Fenris were talking, and if their hushed tone was any indication, it wasn’t something they wanted her to hear.

“I am just concerned Fenris,” Aveline was saying. “You say you want to help Hawke, but isn’t it really yourself you are helping?”

“I do not see how this concerns you, Guard Captain!” Fenris spat out. “We have both been though a lot. We understand each other. What difference does it make if there are two people healed in the end rather than one?”

Aveline rubbed a hand across her brow. “I am concerned that you might end up hurting each other. That you haven’t really thought this through, Fenris...What will you do afterwards? The matter here isn’t Hawke managing to...be intimate. It goes much, much beyond that!”

Hawke’s breath caught and held as Fenris took a few minutes to respond, obviously taken aback.

“I...I don’t know,” he mumbled in the end. He then looked at the Guard Captain, annoyance drawing his dark brows tight over his eyes. “What do you want of me, Aveline, a promise that I will bend on one knee and ask her to marry me? You are not going to get that,” he said through gritted teeth, crushing Hawke’s hopes and dreams with a few angry words.

 She just stood there, looking at him through the crack of the door, kissing all her silly girlish dreams of love and family and children away, and this time for good. She then straightened her spine and squared her shoulders and walked away. She would take what she could. If Fenris was only interested in exploring the physical part of their relationship, she would get what she could out of that and hold her head high when it was time to say goodbye. She was strong. She was a big girl. She could do it.

Who needed love after all? Love was messy and complicated. Who needed the complication? Not her.

She ruthlessly suppressed the little voice in her heart that whispered ‘liar’.

* * *

He came to her room to find her already in bed that night, and undressed down to his breeches without a word. She was huddled under the covers, her back turned away from him. He looked at her form for a few long moments, indecision and doubt heavy in his heart. Damn Aveline for making doubt himself like this. Damn her!

He looked back to his behavior these past days, and realised how out of character he had been acting. It was no wonder everybody had been giving him strange looks. The bitter ex-slave, acting like a love-sick fool. He sighed, disgusted at himself. He had been sending her mixed signals all week and for a few heartbreakingly scary moments he wondered if she had been led to believe there were deeper feelings than he could ever manage behind the way he had been acting.

 The truth was, he couldn’t help himself. After that night, he had become addicted to her presence. Tenderness, comfort, soft touches and kisses. Maker, he was pathetic! He had been wallowing in his first taste of true intimacy like a duck in water. He had felt a huge weight lift of his soul when he had shared his story with her, having found someone he could share his demons with for the first time. He had decided to throw caution to the wind and see where this...this closeness could take them, to enjoy it while it lasted.

But Aveline had made him doubt himself, drawing his attention to the fact that if this didn’t work, Hawke might be hurt. He was tempted to throw her advice to the wind, to dismiss her words, but he had come to...care for Hawke. Seeing her hurt was the last thing he wanted. Maker knew, she had been hurt enough already. That bet, that stupid bet had started all this!

And his physical need for her battled the emotional one. He had had to leave her bed every morning to take care of himself, unimaginably hot and bothered after a night spend by her side, waking up with her scent surrounding him, her body pressed innocently against his. It had been a matter of leaving her bed, embarrassed at his raging erection, or staying there and scaring her to death with the strength of his desire. 

He slipped into her bed, sighing softly at himself. Just one more time, he thought to himself. Aveline was right; he had been selfish and thoughtless, thinking only of what he wanted, not of what was best for her. He would indulge in her softness just one more time, and then try to put some distance between them. Maybe they should have a talk in the morning, he should make it clear to her that he could see no future of the permanent sort in their relationship, such as it was. If they could be clear in their expectations of each other, this...this thing between them, whatever it was, needn’t end.

He reached out to touch her and bring her into his arms, but drew his hand back as if he had been burned, a surprised gasp leaving his mouth. She turned and looked at him, an eyebrow raised over her catlike yellowish eyes.

She was naked.

“Hawke?” he stuttered. “Why...why are you naked?”

She moved nearer, her body touching his. He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. Maker, the feel of her was not as good as he remembered; it was better. It was ecstasy. Instant, hot arousal raced through his bloodstream, heating his body up, hardening him.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” she asked, and his mind struggled to make sense of the slightly hurt tone he detected in her voice, desire already starting to make coherent thought impossible.

“What do you mean?” he murmured while his hands started roaming over her flesh, seemingly on their own volition.

“I heard you talking to Aveline,” she murmured, and he blinked once, twice, her words like a bucketful of ice-cold water cascading over him. His hands stilled and he lifted his eyes from her nude breasts to her face, to the hurt in her eyes, to the defiant tilt of her chin, to the slight trembling of her lips before she stiffened them.

She looked away, not able to bear the guilt in his eyes.

“It’s alright, Fenris,” she whispered. “I understand. This is all you want. It is a shame, because I think I have much more to give you, but...it’s alright.”

His expression fell and then he turned on his back and stared at the ceiling for a few long moments. She studied his profile, something breaking inside. She could see every one of his emotions racing inside him. Shame, fear, doubt. She reached out to touch him, but he flinched back.

“I am not worthy of you,” he said.

And then he got dressed and left.

Hawke turned on her side again, brought her knees up to her chin and let misery wash over her.

It was great while it had lasted. Time to pick up the pieces and move on.

But how?

* * *

 

_I don’t think I had seen Hawke so relaxed, so happy. It broke my heart to see it, glimpses of the girl she had once been, glimpses of the woman she could have been if fate had been kinder.  It broke my heart to catch similar glimpses of the elf like that, too. Maybe even more so. What kind of person would Fenris have been if he hadn’t been a slave, if he hadn’t suffered at the hands of the Magisters? I saw wry humour, and tenderness, and a playful personality emerging, and I was floored. The sodding elf could have been many things in a different life, but one thing was certain: he would have been a charmer._

_I kept expecting to hear moans coming from the bedroom every night, but I was disappointed. Still I understood; they needed to take their time. Too bad time isn’t always available._

_So, I didn’t understand what could possibly have gone wrong, and overnight as well. Hawke closed up like a flower that had bloomed in the middle of the winter and a chilly wind had withered it before its time. Fenris went back to brooding, and left her side to sleep in his mansion for the first time in nearly a week._

_I found out later. Aveline. She had sown doubts in both their hearts, unintentionally so, but there you have it. Friends sometimes push, as Hawke had once said. It was just sad that Aveline had pushed in the wrong direction._

_I realise she had been acting out of concern for both of them, Maker knows that it turned out she had been correct anyway, but...I don’t know. It is true. Friends sometimes push. Sometimes they even shove. I have been known to even drag friends kicking and screaming when they were too dense to know what was good for them. But sometimes, friends pull too. They pull their weight, they pull their punches, they pull the wool over your eyes, for your own good._

_But what did that battering ram of a woman know about that? Pushing was all she knew, and she did it with all the tact of a crazed ogre. Isabela told her off afterwards, but by then it was too late._

_The next time Fenris and Hawke met, they were as guarded as each other as a cat in a dog kennel. It was as if that week where I had sat back and enjoyed them both behaving like normal human beings, (well, one human being and one elf rather),  had been a dream._

_Or a nightmare._

 


	17. Chapter 17

Hawke decided that sitting around in her mansion was not going to improve her mood, or get the others and their insistent probing off her back. So, she sent messages to the troops to join her on a trip to Sundermount, on a quest to find reagents for Solivitus.

Anders arrived at the mansion first and gave her a critical look before moving to warm himself in front of the fireplace.

“Are you sure you are up to this, Hawke?” he asked.

She raised one shoulder and scowled. “You should know, Anders, you are my healer.”

“I’m not talking about your physical condition,” Anders gentled his voice and reached out to tuck one tendril of hair that had fallen across her face behind her ear. She pulled back and scowled even harder.

“I’m fine,” she said, shoulders tense and her back ramrod straight. She met Anders’ warm amber gaze and some of the tension left her in a huff as she noticed the concern in his eyes. “Really, Anders, I’m fine...or I will be. In time,” she muttered.

Anders moved closer and caught her chin in his hand, raising her eyes to his face. “He is a fool, Hawke,” he breathed, his voice warm and gentle. “You deserve better.”

One corner of her mouth rose up in a wry half smile.

“Funny, that’s exactly what he said too.”

* * *

Varric dropped by Fenris’ mansion, obeying an instinctive decision that he knew he was going to regret. Ah, bollocks...he thought. Hawke will skin me alive. He told the elf Hawke needed them for a mission and had to hide his smile at the way the elf scrabbled to get ready.

“Did she tell you I could come too?” he asked the dwarf, dreading that she had, dreading even more that she hadn’t.

“Yes,” Varric effortlessly lied. “Sort of...” he muttered under his breath behind the elf’s back.

They met Aveline on the way to Hawke’s estate. The female warrior had a dejected look about her and her usual brisk, manly gait was hesitant and slow. It was obvious she had something on her mind, something that made her sad. Varric thought he saw her wipe tears off her face as they approached her.

She composed herself when she noticed them and her eyes fell on Fenris.

“She sent me away,” she muttered then took a deep breath. “She called me a meddlesome, tactless busybody.”

Fenris folded his arms against his chest, a small surge of perverse joy going through him, making him cruel.

“You are one,” he spat.

Aveline recoiled as if he had struck her and Fenris felt a twinge of shame. She immediately composed  herself though and her mouth tightened into a thin line.

“Don’t blame this mess on me, Fenris. I care about her, and about you too. I didn’t make you leave her, or hurt her. You did that on your own, thank you very much.”

Fenris looked away, and then his eyes hardened before he trained them again on the Captain.

“Who was it that made me doubt myself, though, I wonder?” he whispered looking straight at the red-haired woman. “She heard us talking that night. And then she offered herself to me, like a lamb to slaughter, because she thought that was all I wanted.”

“Wasn’t it?” Aveline shot back just as cruelly, and watched his confident stance falter. She smiled contemptuously as he searched wildly for an answer, not knowing himself what it was he had wanted.

“I thought so,” she spat and turned to leave. “She may not see it now, but I saved her a lot of heartache. I wouldn’t put it past you to..bed her and skulk away like a thief in the night, Fenris.”

“I would never!” Fenris shouted behind her retreating back. “What sort of cruel bastard do you take me for?”

Aveline didn’t grace him with a reply, just kept on walking, a dejected air around her shoulders again.

Fenris turned to Varric, a scowl darkening his handsome features.

“What?” the dwarf raised his hands in the air. “I didn’t say anything, did I?”

* * *

They arrived at Hawke’s mansion soon after, Fenris nearly dragging his steps. It was obvious Varric had lied, and he was already seeing in his mind the scene that would soon unfold. If Hawke had dismissed Aveline like that, what was she going to say to him? She wouldn’t probably even look at him, and nobody would blame her.

He settled against the wall, crossed his arms on his chest and decided to wait it out. It was bound to be awkward. He just hoped she wouldn’t kick him completely out of her life...he wasn’t sure he could live with that. He frowned at the errand thought. Of course he could live with that. It wasn’t that she was important to him, or...essential. He could live without her. Couldn’t he?

The sudden surge of pain that tightened his stomach and clenched around his heart like an iron fist provided him with the answer. Maker, when had this happened? He allowed himself to imagine himself without her in his life, even from a distance, and his breath caught. _Oh, Maker_ , he inwardly groaned. _Am I in love? Is this what it feels like? Lord, this hurts!_

She opened the door and stepped out at that moment, dressed in a new suit of armour, that he hadn’t seen before. It had a skirt. A very short skirt, and her long, shapely legs were bare form her thighs to her metal greaves. His throat went immediately dry and he had to swallow once or twice. Maker. She looked divine, with her short, midnight black hair and her chartreuse, brilliant eyes shining on her pale face.

Still reeling from his previous realization, he was defenseless against the hot surge of desire that rushed through his bloodstream, making him suddenly uncomfortable in his tight armour and leathers breaches. His eyes roamed all over her, the memory of her  body naked in his arms attacking him with viciousness, making his breath hitch.

She noticed him, and her step faltered. She looked behind her, and the realization that she was actually looking for people to protect her was like a bucketful of cold water over the head. Regret choked him. She had trusted him with her pain and her heart, and what had he done, other than hurt her and disappoint her? He bent his head, shame and regret weighing him down.

“Fenris...” she whispered. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to offer you my sword. Do you have need of me?” 

_Yes. YES...No. Damn you, yes. I need you. Why did you have to go?_

She bend her head and firmed her lips into a hard line, so they wouldn’t start trembling. Maker, this wasn’t fair. He hadn’t given her any time to build the walls back up,  to defend herself against his presence. She looked  at her boots, scowling, suddenly wishing she had never met him, she had never trusted him, she had never lo...

 _NO. No, I don’t love him_ , she desperately lied to herself, trying to believe it.  _I can live without him. I can send him away. I WILL send him away_. _I’ll do it now. I’ll turn around and tell him I don’t need him._

“No. No, I don’t need you,” she said in the end, her voice ghostly thin. It was the hardest thing she had ever said, and her heart clenched when she saw him square his shoulders, look away and give a terse nod.

“Do you wish me to leave the city?” he choked out. “Do you not want me in your party anymore?”

Hawke looked behind her. Anders was standing there, his arms folded against his chest, and Varric was right next to him. She raised an eyebrow to them and Anders nodded yes, while Varric nodded no and then stomped his boot on the mage’s foot.

She rubbed a hand against her neck and sighed. She couldn’t. Maker help her but she couldn’t, she just...she just had to be able to at least look at him, breathe the same air he did. She was so weak. She resigned herself to being the love-sick, lost little girl stealing glances of the man that had rejected her. _It will pass_ , she consoled herself _, I will learn to live with the pain. I have before._

“Ah, what the...” she said in the end, releasing the breath she had been holding. “I know I will regret this, but...follow me.”

“I enjoy following you,” he said, in a come-hither, relieved voice that made her knees melt to butter.

“Yes,” she muttered under her breath. “Regretting it already...”

* * *

_Walking up to Sundermount that morning, I had to put up with Ander’s nagging (the poor baby, his foot hurt, I wonder why) and Fenris’ sour looks. He threatened to introduce me to my innards if I ever lied to him again and I defended myself saying I hadn’t technically lied, I had just embellished the truth a bit._

_But I enjoyed myself too. You wanted to have some fun back then? All you had to do was put Hawke in a short skirt, and have Broodster and Blondylocks follow her. That girl could sway those hips without even trying. So for the next hours I just snickered whenever Fenris growled to Anders for staring at her...derriere, and Anders growled to Fenris for ogling at her legs._

_At one point she even actually bent over to examine a crate and I am sure I heard the elf stifle a moan._

_It was clear he wanted her, clear that he was suffering for having walked away from her. But the sodding elf was so well controlled and disciplined I could never have imagine just how **much** he wanted her. _

_As it turned out, enough to pin her against a wall._


	18. Chapter 18

 

The weather was uncommonly hot for the season, and although they had set out early in the morning, their search seemed to be going nowhere. To make matters worse, the sun seemed only to be getting hotter and half way up the mountain they were all drenched in sweat, hot and uncomfortable, the warriors roasting in their metal armour and Anders steaming in his heavy woollen robes.

“How about a break?” Varric suggested. “There’s a stream somewhere around here, we could wait the midday heat out.”

They all agreed with various degrees of relieved sighs, and they all made the way down to the beach. It was nice spot, as nice as any spot could be on the Wounded Coast; a secluded beach, with a few trees to provide shelter, and a small waterfall trickling down the cliff side to become a stream that joined the sea. It was peaceful and breezy and they all settled under the shade after dipping their head in the cold stream to cool off.

Hawke sighed and started to remove the breast piece of her armour with some difficulty. Anders immediately moved to her side to help her and Varric nearly laughed out loud at the way the elf narrowed his eyes at the sight. Hawke turned to thank Anders with a small smile, and he grinned brightly at her, his fingers still on her ribcage, and his warm amber eyes looking at her in an expression that could only be described as adoring.

Fenris tossed his gauntlets down and stalked off, the sudden clangmaking both Hawke and Anders jolt. She had a sad look on her face as she watched the lanky elf stride away, and she swallowed hard before she tore her eyes away. Anders reached out and tucked a short tendril of her hair behind her ear.

“He has no right to...” he said and Hawke’s lips thinned and she frowned.

“I know,” she replied before pulling away and going after the elf.

“Oh-oh!” Varric said, and exchanged a look with the mage. “Nug shit about to hit. Hard.”

* * *

“What is your problem?” she asked him, her voice loud and jarring. “You made it perfectly clear you don’t want me, what is your problem now? Why are you acting like a jilted lover?”

He whirled so fast his hair fanned around his head. “Don’t want you?” he growled, and his entire body tensed to the point of breaking. His eyes roamed over her, taking in both her tense posture, and the way her thin tunic left little of her body to the imagination. Hot desire pooled in his groin, hardening him within a single breath and his eyes glittered like that of a predator as he stalked near her. “Don’t want you?” he asked again, his voice silky with menace and something else she couldn’t decipher, something vaguely alarming, but also so, so arousing.

He was inches from her, his erratic breath fanning her mouth, her face, and she found herself frozen in front of him, shaking with equal parts anger, fear and unbelievably hot excitement. His eyes zeroed on her mouth and she gulped once, twice, her lips already opening a fraction on their own volition to accept his kiss, eager for his unforgettable taste.

He growled again, a low rumbling noise in his chest, before he grasped her hand and brought it flush against his groin, where his cock was already trying to drill a hole through his leathers.

“Does this feel like I don’t want you?” he groaned, her touch bringing him both relief and anguish.

She jumped back as if the touch had burned her, and her eyes grew wide in apprehension before pain shaded them; her sweet mouth that had been tilted towards his tightened in a thin line and then turned downwards in a sad frown.

“That’s all you want from me,” she accused him with a barely heard whisper, her heart breaking. “And I offered to give it to you, but you rejected me.”

Fenris wavered. Lust was clouding his mind, the desire to just push her against the hard rock of the cliff and just take her was warring with a small voice inside him, that was telling him to pull back, to end this; it was for her own good.

_And yours of course. It’s safer like this. Push her away._

“It was for the best,” he answered and looked away. Maybe if he didn’t look at her, the pain would go away, and the desire whipping his body would lessen and fade.

“Best for whom?” she insisted and moved directly in front of his line of vision. “You or me?”

“Both,” he spat, turning his back on her again. “Go play with your mage.”

“Fenris, don’t be such an ass. You pushed me away, remember? I didn’t do anything, you were the one that chose to walk away from...from whatever it was we had.” Her voice was angry and hurt and he resisted the urge to yell at her, to tell her to just leave him the fuck alone, to tell her that he had no answers to what she was asking, because he had no idea what was going on inside him.

“Hawke...” he sighed, giving up on the effort to decipher his own feelings. “Just leave me be.”

She said nothing, just stared at him for a few long moments. He felt her gaze on his back but he resisted the temptation to turn around and read what was lurking in her eyes. Was it anger? Was it pain? Contempt? He didn’t want to know.

She left after a while, but he still didn’t turn back, holding his body impossibly still and his heart and thoughts guarded behind a tall, dark wall.

This was not him being cruel, no matter what she thought. This was about survival, plain and simple.

* * *

When the blistering midday sun had subsided they hesitantly left the shelter of the small beach, and made their way to the top of the mountain. They hadn’t gone far though, when a group of Tevinter slavers ambushed them.

Fenris felt a cold sliver of fear tickle down his spine. After the way he had treated her, would she put her life on the line for him? Did he have any right to ask that of her?

“Give up the slave and nobody gets hurt!” one of the men shouted and before Fenris had a chance to answer, Hawke stepped forward, an angry scowl on her face.

“Fenris is a free man!” she shouted. “He is nobody’s slave!”

 Fenris shot a look at her, relief flooding him, ashamed that he had doubted her, even for a minute. She hated slavers too, and with good reason, and would never surrender even her worse enemy to them.

“I won’t repeat myself,” the leader of the hunters shouted. “Give us the slave!”

He pulled his sword, letting power wash through his markings, and prepared for battle.

“I am not your slave!” he growled in rage and charged, Hawke’s blade rasping as it was pulled from its sheath at his side.

He spared a glance at her and saw her gear for battle, a grim, determined look on her face. He allowed himselfto smile despite the rage mounting in him at his old life catching up with him again.

No matter what he had done, or said, she was at his side. As always.

The battle was soon over, and Fenris had soon found out that his old master’s apprentice Hadriana, had been sent to Kirkwall to retrieve him. His companion looked at him in trepidation as he snapped the neck of the young mage that had been accompanying the slavers.

Fenris looked frantically around him, as if expecting another attack.

“Hadriana!” he spat, venom dripping from his voice. “If she is here it is at his bidding. I knew he wouldn’t let this go!”

“I remember her name...” Hawke said absentmindedly, bent over a slaver’s body she had been examining, “you...told me about her, that night...” She winced and looked away again, the memory of that one perfect night he had opened up to her too painful for her to deal with at that very moment.

He didn’t seem to notice, caught up in the rage the agonizing memories were evoking in him.

“My old master’s apprentice. We must go to her, take care of her before she has a chance to fee, or prepare.”

Hawke didn’t even answer; she was quiet, and as still as a statue.

Anders came close to her, unnerved by her stillness, and bent over the slaver’s shield she had been examining. Varric approached too, and after some fuming, so did Fenris.

“Hawke,” he said impatiently, a hidden edge to his voice. “We should go. Are you coming with me? I ...I need your help.”

“Where have I seen this mark before?” Anders asked, staring at the mark on the shield, scratching his head.

“I can’t imagine,” Hawke answered, her voice uncommonly cold. “Unless you have seen my ass.”

Then it hit them all, Fenris and Anders first, Varric a few moments later. She had a slavers’ mark branded on her, Anders had seen it, and so had Fenris.

Fenris narrowed his eyes and stooped down to look at it. “Are you sure it is the same?” he gently asked her, although his voice carried some small undertone of anger.

“It’s not something a girl would forget, Fenris,” she replied rising to her feet. “There are some things a girl never forgets...her first dance, her first kiss... the brand on her ass...” she smiled a small, sarcastic grin.

Varric whistled.

“So, the slavers that had...you know...worked for Danarius?” he asked. “If they had taken you back to the Imperium you would have been sold to him?”

 Fenris’ eyes grew huge at that and met with Hawke’s. It was true. Magisters like Danarius usually employed the same company of slavers, and their best catches were offered to them first. She had been raped by slavers that had worked for his master. He didn’t know why, but that somehow made him feel...guilty, as if his old life had now tainted her also. Which only made his desire to go kill Hadriana all the much bigger.

“So,” Varric went on, “is this fate or what? If things had gone a bit differently, you two could have met ages ago.”

Hawke’s face took on a startled expression, then pain crossed her face for just a second before she turned away.

“Lucky me...” she muttered before picking the shield up and tossing it over the cliff.

Fenris felt his heart break for her, and wanted to punch the dwarf for his careless words. Hawke would have been a slave then, if she hadn’t been raped and left for dead. He couldn’t decide what would have been worse, but the thought of her in Danarius’ hands was abhorrent. She probably didn’t see it like that, and after what had happened between them he was certain she didn’t consider the possibility of having met him earlier in her life a good thing.

He shot Varric a lethal look, and the dwarf had the decency to look away, belatedly realising what exactly he had said. Then, as if on its own accord, his hand shot out to rest on her shoulder, a desperate little voice in his head screaming for him to offer her some, any comfort. She flinched away, and looked at him with a steely look.

“Let’s go kill that Hadriana of yours,” she just said and picking up her sword motioned to him to show them the way.

Fenris sighed under his breath, properly chastised. She wasn’t going to accept any comfort from him. What did he expect, after the way he had treated her?

Regret warring with anger, he nodded to her and led the small group to the holding caves outside Kirkwall.

* * *

_I was shaken. We all were. Danarius had hired the bastards that had stalked and captured a little girl in the forest next to her house. That sick bastard that had carved an elf up and pumped him full of Lyrium had also been responsible for sending those rapid dogs that had gang raped a little girl for three days, THREE DAYS, and left her for dead afterwards._

_I regretted my words, but the truth remained: fate had been throwing these two together years before they had even met, weaving invisible bonds between two strangers, an elven slave and an apostate’s daughter, that would only meet years later, by utter and complete luck._

_Or was it fate?_

_We killed Hadrianna that day, all of us fighting like a well oiled machine, and then Fenris had had a little meltdown and ranted at her, ignoring her hurt look as he took out all his frustration and anger on her. He had then stormed off, alone, letting her heartbroken and defeated, although she gallantly tried to hide it._

_He had been waiting for her, to apologise, when she went back home._

_If I had known, if only I had known....I would never have left her alone that night. My poor Hawke, my poor little friend. I would have gone with her, or sent Anders back with her._

_I am an old man, and I have many things in life I regret. Leaving her alone that night rates up there in the top five. Three._

_Ah, who am I kidding?_

_It’s number one._

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

None of them said much on the long trek down from Sundermount. Hawke’s mood was morose after the things Fenris had said to her, and she seemed lost in thought, too distracted with whatever thoughts were going through her head to pay the rest of her companions any heed.

Anders sighed and moved to her side, ignoring the warning, negative nods the dwarf was sending him.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he offered their leader and she looked up and a brief flash of annoyance went though her eyes before she looked away, huffing irritably.

“I don’t know why everyone thinks I have suddenly turned into a weepy little girl, talking about feelings and such shit all the time,” she barked. “I don’t want to talk. Leave me alone.”

Varric shot the healer a look that said ‘I told you so’ before he rushed after Hawke. But the blonde mage wasn’t done.

“Maybe because _everyone_ cares for you, Hawke,” he replied, his own ire rising at her dismissive words. “Maybe because _everyone_ has been at your side all this time, waiting for a chance to be your _everything_.” Her head whipped up at this and she looked at him with a genuinely surprised look on her face; he suddenly realised what he was saying and flushed a slight pink. He could sense the dwarf making mental notes in the background and his fists clenched. _Way to go, you idiot_ , he berated himself. _Nice way to tell a woman how much you care_. _Very smooth_.

 He looked into her eyes trying to gauge her reaction, to see if he should stop, and crack a joke to diffuse the situation, or if this was the time to actually come clean and confess all he had been dying to tell her; nothing but surprise in her eyes. _Well, in for a copper, in for a sovereign_ , he thought.

“All you look at is that damned bitter mongrel of an elf, Hawke,” he said, belatedly cringing at how accusing, how whining his words were. “Why can’t you see that there are others that would kill and die for a chance to be at your side?”

“Anders?” she breathed. “What are you telling me?”

“That I have loved you since the moment I met you,” he took both her hands in his and stepped closer, into her closely guarded personal space. She didn’t move back, and his hope flared. His voice dropping to a hoarse whisper, he brought both his hands to his mouth and kissed her fingers, his eyes never leaving her startled ones. “Tell me I can at least hope, Hawke.”

She looked at him for a few long minutes before her mouth twisted in a sad little smile. Rising up on her tiptoes, she kissed both his cheeks and cupped his face, her eyes sad and regretful.

“Don’t say anything,” Anders’ voice broke. That look on her face said it all; she didn’t feel the same and she never would. His heart breaking into tiny little slivers of ice, he made a valiant effort to smile and squeezed her hand. “It’s alright. I understand.”

She hugged him tight, and Anders felt like bawling like an infant in her arms. _Maker, this isn’t fair. This isn’t ...just. I deserve some love too. What does that blighted elf have that I don’t?_

“I wish I could command my heart who to love, Anders,” she whispered against his neck. “But I can’t.”

She pulled away and looked over Kirkwall, itswalls visible in the distance. She turned to Anders and gave him a brilliant smile, even though there was a slight trace of moisture in her eyes.

“I wish I could,” she said and the smile faded, “because something tells me my heart will regret loving whom it has chosen. It will pay in blood, I fear...” her voice dropped. “But there is nothing I can do. I am a one-man woman, Anders.”

Varric cut in at that very moment. The situation had gotten too deep for his liking.

“Drinks at the Hanged Man? I’ll buy. The whole bar if I have to, just stop this weepy-washy stuff already. Come on, Hawke. We’ll get the bad poet to recite us his latest masterpiece.”

Hawke sent him a small smile.

“No,” she said. “I have to find him.”

* * *

She looked everywhere for him. His mansion, the Chantry, the Hanged Man where all she had found was Varric trying to console a heartbroken Anders. She had backed away, trying not to be noticed, but Varric did anyway, and sent her a nod and a ‘look what you’ve done’ sign. She had met up with Isabela and her new conquest, a huge hulk of a man, down at a dockside tavern, and she had been drunk and obviously preoccupied. She hadn’t paid her much attention and Hawke was both grateful and resentful for it; she didn’t need any more people sticking their nose in her business, but she had also needed a friend. Did that even make any sense?

She shook her head and stepped out into the damp night air again, leaving the noisy ding of the tavern behind. She sighed, rubbing a wary hand across her forehead. Where was he? Had he been attacked on the way back? Was he lying in a ditch somewhere, bleeding to death? Was he dead already?

She stopped by his mansion once more, climbed up to the only room that was somewhat habitable and tidy, and looked around. The fire in the hearth wasn’t lit, and there was no sign of him. She walked to the pile of blankets in the corner, knowing that it was where he usually slept; he had never used the opulent bed in the middle of the room, not as far as she knew. She hesitantly reached out and pulled his blanket to her and then buried her face in it, inhaling his unique smell that still lingered on the fabric and letting her breath out on a tremulous sigh.

Where was he?

His voice rang out in her mind, trembling with fury. ‘ _What has magic touched and hasn’t spoiled?’_ he had asked, and had effectively slain her. _She_ had been touched by magic. Her whole family, her whole life had revolved around magic. Magic had saved her life, had healed her broken body. Magic had twinkled in her father’s eyes, had shaped her sister’s life, had taken her mother from her, had been unable to save her brother. Magic was what she was sure she and Fenris could make together, but he had run from her, not once but twice now, refusing her comforting words, her outstretched hand.

Hawke sighed once more, feeling totally defeated, and left his blanket in the corner again. There was no point on all this, running after him, looking for him, pursuing him. He was never going to even acknowledge what they’d almost had.

That night, that perfect night when she had cried in his arms, when they had both bared their soul to each other had been _magic_. Pure, one of a kind, change-my-world-forever _magic_.

And he hated it.

* * *

Walking in her mansion a few minutes later, she was astonished to find him waiting for her, sitting on the low bench in the antechamber. She shook her head to clear the surprise, and approached him warily, just as he was getting up too.

“I’ve been thinking about what happened with Hadriana...” he hesitantly started, rubbing his chin in what had come to be his trademark puzzled or awkward move. “I took out my anger on you, undeservedly so. I...am sorry.”

She crossed her arms on her chest, anger pushing through now that she knew he was safe.

“Is that it?” she hissed between clenched teeth. “You’re sorry? I was worried, I combed the whole town looking for you!”

“What would you have me do?” he hissed back. “I had told you about her, about the things she ...had done to me. She was a torment, a torturer. She took sick pleasure in ridiculing me, putting me down, making me...” he looked away. “Let us just drop it. I wanted to let her go, but I couldn’t.”

It was her turn to draw back in surprise. “You wanted to let her go?”

Fenris looked at her, then at himself, contempt and self loathing in his eyes. “It is like a sickness in me, this...this hate!” he spat the word. “And they put it there… I kept remembering everything that bitch had ever done to me, everything she had made me do. I was... a toy for her, Hawke.”

Some of her anger left her, to be replaced with sadness, and an overwhelming feeling of being tired, so tired.

“I don’t blame you for killing her, Fenris,” she said, her voice considerably softer. “She deserved what she got, and I was glad to see you kill her. I will be glad to see you kill that depraved master of yours too, when the time comes. I will be at your side that day.”

“I talked to you...harshly,” he gritted out, apologies always difficult for him. “I am sorry. I am sorry I caused you worry, too. I just needed to be alone. I still do.” And with these words he turned to leave, but Hawke put her hand out and instinctively grasped his forearm trying to stop him.

Later, she would come to ask herself why she had done that, why she had stopped him, trying to offer him comfort once more, while he clearly didn’t want it, and would never accept it. Later, she would ask herself what would have happened if she hadn’t tried to stop him...maybe their relationship would find time to mature, to evolve without pressure. Maybe they would have been able to salvage their friendship if nothing else.

The minute she had put her hand out and grasped his bicep, though, her fate, and his, had been sealed. There had been too much repressed emotion, too much denied desire, for anything else to happen. Too much pain, and both of them had had enough of it, their bodies instinctively trying to drown it in physical contact, in the comfort of flesh against flesh. Fenris was lost the moment she touched him, and she was powerless to stop him.

He slammed her against the wall, his markings glowing bright blue, a feral, hungry expression on his face that would have frightened anyone but Hawke. She loved him, and she wasn’t able to be afraid of him; instead the bloodthirsty warrior in her recognised the violent desire that had gripped him and rejoiced in it. None of them could be sure afterwards whose mouth had assaulted whose first, but they were soon drowning in a fervent kiss, lips and mouths and teeth battling as if they couldn’t get enough of each other’s taste, as if the stolen breath they dragged from each other’s lungs was the only source of oxygen available.

It was only when his body, lean and hard and unbearably aroused pushed into hers, his hips grinding against her and driving his hardness against her softness, that a sliver of fear penetrated the pleasure of his kiss, and Hawke tensed, memories of pain and violence chilling the fire that had been racing through her bloodstream.

She whimpered, but he was too lost to realise it was because of fear. His mouth was now trailing down her creamy neck, and she fought desperately to drown her fear, whispering his name like a mantra, trying to remind herself that this was Fenris, the man she had fallen in love with, the man she wanted. She lost the battle when his hand ghosted over her breast, still covered by heavy armour, looking for the clasp to her shoulder guards. Underneath, a scar in the shape of a man’s teeth suddenly radiated fear throughout her body, not of him, _never of him_ , but of the act that was going to follow.

“Fenris...” she whimpered, her voice that of a lost, scared little girl, “please...don’t hurt me.”

It was like a slap to the face, and he found himself with a startled gasp, raising huge green eyes to her pleading yellow ones. He read panic and trust both in their depths, and he felt humbled, utterly floored by how much she trusted him, by how much it was costing her to show such faith in him, to be so vulnerable. His hand came up to touch her face and he realised with self disgust that he had been grabbing her with the sharp, talon-like claws of his gauntlets, no doubt leaving welts behind. He used his teeth to tear one off, and then his hand was cupping her face, more tenderly than he thought he ever could. He laid a kiss on her slightly trembling lips and she sighed, and went lax against him, surrendering to him. His kiss, his tender touch on her face, were enough to assuage her fear, and he once again felt utterly shaken at this woman’s faith in him.  Any thought of turning back, of stepping away, any doubt in his mind about the correctness of what he was doing just evaporated. He could not walk away; it wasn’t just the desire that was shipping his body that forbid it, but also the desire to be lost in that unconditional trust, to be the man she saw when she looked at him.

“Never...” he whispered as he captured her lips in a soothing, intimate kiss, his velvety voice sending shivers down her spine. “I will never hurt you, my Hawke.”

What a lie that would turn out to be!

* * *

The room was bathed in semi-darkness, the only source of light the fire blazing in the fireplace. Hawke was grateful for the dim light as his fingers started slowly but inexorably divesting her of her armour. She was suddenly shy, although he had seen her naked before, incredibly self-conscious of her scars and her body’s imperfections. What if she disgusted him? What if his fingers hesitated?

Desperate for his approval, and furious at herself for her uncharacteristic vulnerability, she attacked the clasps and fastenings of his own armour, knowing instinctively that shared nakedness would bring her comfort. He sighed as her fingers ran over the exposed muscles of his chest and arms, the biceps twitching under her questing fingers, the lyrium markings reacting with a faint glow.

She stilled.

“Am I hurting you?” she softly asked, tracing the markings that ran down his long, elegant neck. “Do they hurt?”

He lost his voice at the tender concern in her voice. He wasn’t used to tenderness, to someone being concerned if their touch caused him pain or discomfort. In the past, the magisters had treated him like a thing, an object to enjoy. Danarius and Hadriana had taken sick pleasure in causing him pain, and the men and women his old master had commanded him to ‘entertain’ had cared little about whether their touch caused him anguish. Some had been better than others, but most, depraved like his master and his pet student, had derived joy in making him suffer. He shook his head to clear the painful memories; they had no place between him and Hawke and he would not allow them to mar the perfection of this moment. He basked in her gentleness, in her tender touches, throwing his head back and releasing a tortured moan.

He realised she had stilled, anxiously waiting for his answer, and with a small smile he grasped her hands and moved them over his markings himself, wordlessly showing her the pressure and pace that would bring him pleasure instead of pain, the kind of touch that would make the lyrium lines sing under her fingers like the strings of a well tuned harp. She surprised him by leaning in and tentatively stroking her velvety tongue over the swirl of lyrium over his heart; said heart trembled with joy under the caress.

“Hawke...” he moaned her name, “let me see you, ma dulcis. Let me see your body.”

She stepped back, suddenly realising the protective layerof armour was gone, and that she was standing in front of him in nothing else than her thin tunic and her smallclothes. Battling the blush that coloured her face, and her insecurities, she gallantly grasped the hem of her tunic and pulled it over her head. Before she had time to think about it, she shimmied her smalls off and unhooked her breastband, and there she was, naked in front of him like the day she was born.

He stepped closer, noticing her blush and the way her hands moved as if to cover herself before she controlled the impulse. His breath lodged somewhere in his throat, his hands trembling, he slipped a finger under the chin and raised her head to gaze deeply into her eyes.

“You are beautiful, Hawke,” he mumbled, before his hands slipped down her neck and over her shoulders and arms.  

 Fenris’ hands moved lower, cupping her pert breasts, the thumbs flicking over her pebbled nipples. His mouth watered and he couldn’t resist bending his white-haired head to her breast in order to flick his tongue over the rosy peak, a startled gasp escaping her at the sudden spear of heat that rushed from her breast to her loins. But he didn’t stop there, his hands ghosting over her ribs, trailing down to caress her flat stomach and then to the back,  over her curvy behind.

She tensed for a moment when his fingers trailed over the marred flesh of the burn the slavers had left on her, but he just went on, and she relaxed marginally, only to jerk again when his long fingers tangled in the small, dark tuft of hair on the apex of her thighs. He hummed and she allowed him the touch, widening her stance a bit to let him touch her.

Again, her trust humbled Fenris, and he captured her lips in a passionate kiss, just as his fingers explored her centre.

“Maker, Hawke, you are wet, my sweet,” he growled and she moaned into his mouth as his fingers slipped between her drenched lips and unerringly focused on her little nub, circling, strumming, even pinching lightly, until her breath started coming in pants and she had to put both hands on his taut shoulders to steady herself; her knees had turned to butter and could no longer hold her.

“Fenris! Maker!” she nearly screamed, as he suddenly dropped to his knees and buried his face in her centre, using his hands to cup her behind and force her to widen her stance even more. She whimpered her shock at the first swipe of his tongue over the heated flesh, his nose nudging her nub, and desperately tried to pull him back up, beyond embarrassed at the intimate way he was touching her. Shame, apprehension and desire warred as he continued laving her with his tongue; desire won. Heavy, drugging pleasure fogged her mind, banished her fears and turned her wanton. She keened his name, shamelessly asking for more, grasping fistfuls of his silky hair to press him nearer.

He smiled against her flesh, and grasping her more tightly, he rose to his feet again, taking her with him. She let out startled little yelp as she felt herself being lifted in the air, until she realised she was being carried to her bed, only a short distance away. She wrapped her arms around him, his head against her breast, and he couldn’t resist suckling her rosy nipple as he was carrying her. She sank on the mattress with a sigh and smiled sweetly up to him, the pleasure she had already found in his touch enough to make her relax and await his next move with heated anticipation instead of fear.

The elf answered her smile with one of his own as he climbed up over her, and their lips met once more, in a scorching hot kiss, his tongue dipping into her mouth and inviting her to taste him as well. She did, slowly, hesitantly, and couldn’t control the fine tremors that raced through her body at his heady taste, his masculine scent; the scent of aroused male mixed with slight tang of lyrium that his heated body gave out.

His hand had trailed down her body once more and Hawke took a deep, steadying breath as she slowly parted her thighs for him, the movement more accepting than any words she could have uttered to give him her consent.  He gently stroked the soft, closed folds, making her breath catch.

“Easy now,” he whispered, then deftly opened her and penetrated her with one long finger. She stiffened in his arms, her thighs locking together again in an effort to control his invading hand. It was useless, because there was nothing she could do to stop the slow probe of his finger inside her. Shock made her dizzy. Oh, Maker. Oh, sweet Andraste.

She struggled briefly to contain the chaos of her rioting nerve endings, then collapsed under him in surrender.

“There, that’s good,” he crooned, and pushed another finger into her.

Her hips arched, then subsided.  She felt stretched, invaded, her body no longer under her control. Some dormant, primal instinct was stirring into life. Her inner muscles contracted gently in adjustment, and Fenris’ entire body shivered.

His voice was hoarse. “Am I hurting you?”

Yes. No. She hadn’t realized it could feel like this. She was a little delirious with shock and pleasure, and shook her head, because she could not manage any words. She tried to smile to him, but lost her voice on a strangled moan as he bent his head to capture one of her nipples, swirling his tongue around the rosy tip before suckling it deep into his mouth.

She would never have though her body capable of such intense sensation; colour swirled behind her eyelids, heat surged through her, little helpless moans escaped her, although she had bitten down on her lip to stop them. His fingers reached deep inside her, rasping her delicate inner tissues. Helplessly she arched her hips again, taking his touch deeper within. Her thighs fell open, giving him easier access. Her heart was thundering, and she felt as if she might fly apart.

Then he withdrew, and she whimpered in protest, before his mouth descended on her, and his tongue now took the place of his fingers. She arched, in shock, in pleasure, even she didn’t know anymore, at the feeling of him lapping up the wetness that escaped her. Then his rough thumb searched upward in her soft folds and pressed on the small, stiff nub at the top of her sex. Pure fire exploded through her nerves, and she gave a strained cry as she curled toward him. He continued to circle and rub with his thumb, tormenting the little nub, each touch making the fire burn hotter, while his tongue dipped inside her pulsing depths, gathering her juices, savouring her, purring at her taste.

“F-Fenris!” It was a wail almost of anguish. Pleasure built quickly, sensation spiralling into a tighter and tighter coil, and suddenly it was too much. Her entire body clenched, then she shook in uncontrollable spasms as her climax rolled through her in waves. He held her close, letting her know that she wasn’t alone, crooning comforting words to her in Arcanum, while she writhed and moaned, her body thrashing in the throes of her orgasm as if it was being whipped.

The crest of sensation subsided, though small shock waves continued to ripple through her loins. She went limp, her face buried against his chest while she gasped for breath.

Fenris ran his hand through her short, sweat-matted hair before claiming her lips again, in a kiss that was hungry and desperate. He then stood and began stripping off his breaches, fighting with the leather laces, cursing them in his impatience.

With an effort, Hawke lifted her heavy eyelids and watched him undress. His urgency was an almost palpable force, his movements swift and violent. In only seconds, his powerful form was bare. He crawled over her, his hard thighs pushing between hers and forcing them wide, then settled his lean, toned body on her.

With incredible joy, and some trepidation, she felt his hardness against her softness. He braced himself on one strong forearm and reached between them with his other hand, guiding his shaft as he tensed his buttocks and slowly began pushing into her.

Hawke’s breath caught in her throat, and she felt herself drowning in sensation again. She had felt stretched by his fingers probing her, but his thick sex filled her to the point of distress. Despite the abuse she had gone through, she was tight, desperately so, her sheath tightening convulsively on him as he inexorably thrust himself to the hilt. She gave a soft, panicked sound of discomfort that verged on real pain.

Fenris paused, holding himself deep within her. His powerful body was shaking, his marking were pulsing in time with his heartbeat. “Are you alright? Do you want me to stop?” His voice was hoarse, and barely audible.

She couldn’t think what to say. She wanted him to go on, she couldn’t go on without knowing what it felt like to have the man she loved inside her, but physically she wasn’t certain she could bear it when he started thrusting. He was so big, and the slightest movement rasped against her sensitive flesh, causing her nerve endings to tingle; the sensation hovered between ecstasy and pain. Agonizing memories of pain and humiliation kept resurfacing, and she desperately shoved them aside; but what if she wasn’t able to once he started moving? 

But he was a man, not a saint. His male flesh was throbbing inside her, his breath panting, his heart hammering. He held himself rigidly still for a tense moment while he waited for her answer, but when none came his control snapped. A rough sound burst from his throat, an animalistic growl, and he began thrusting with heavy power, reaching deep into her.

Now she had her answer; as he slammed into her, his length pummelling her tender depth, she lost herself, she forgot everything, and just felt, surrendering to the sensation. She twined her arms around him, wrapped her legs around his hips and gave in to his masculine strength, to the male flesh pounding in her.  The air filled with the sound of bodies slapping against each other, his harsh breathing, her soft moans. The heady scent of mingled sweat and heady arousal permeated the room.

She had wanted Fenris, and she had wanted this. Tightly she shut her eyes, savouring every moment; she loved his roughness, the savagery of his hunger. She loved the helpless groans that escaped him, the heat and sweat as his body coiled and struck. She loved that he could not control himself. She loved that she could be nothing more complicated than a female in his arms, mating with a male of her choice, the sweetness and the pleasure between them elemental and primal, as old as time itself.

Her last conscious thought before her second climax slammed inside her like a charging ogre was that she wished this could go on forever. That she wanted him forever inside her, forever joined to her flesh. She thought of how sweet it would be if this night resulted in a baby, the first of the children she had always craved, and her heart fluttered in her chest. It would be the ultimate act to show her love; the ultimate way that he would show she mattered. A joining of them both; a mixture of them, born of this glorious moment between them, a product of desire and want and joy. She screamed his name, and flew into the sun, her body racked by shudders, pleasure unfurling and curling her body, radiating in continuous waves from the top of her head to her curling toes. Fenris let a harsh cry, gave one last violent thrust inside her and then shocked her by pulling out and letting his seed spill against her stomach.

She looked at him, eyes wide, her mind still fogged by pleasure, watched him as he shuddered uncontrollably above her, watched the thick ropes of seed spray from his manhood onto her flesh and thought, _why_?

Why hadn’t he given her his seed? Was she not good enough? Wasn’t that what customers did at the Rose? Pull out?

A sudden chill went through her, and she felt her eyes well with tears. Fenris collapsed to her side, his breath still laboured, and drew her to him, spooning her from behind, totally content and sated. But she just lay there, totally frozen. Apparently after mind-numbing pleasure, heartbreak could still come. She touched her fingers to the thick liquid on her belly, already cooling, and shuddered. Her dream of babies, half elven babies with soulful green eyes, shrivelled and died, before she even had time to realise it had been there.

 A tear rolled down her face, and she swiped at it angrily.

It would be okay. She would find a way to make him love her as she loved him. In the morning, when they would both have a clear mind, they would talk, and she would make him see how right they were together.

At that thoughtshe allowed herself to be pulled into the Fade, while at her side, Fenris was suddenly being pulled into the Void.

* * *

She woke a short time later and found the bed empty behind her; looking around her frantically she found him by the fireplace.

Something was wrong. Something was seriously wrong.

“Was it that bad?” she asked, hiding her vulnerability and her insecurity behind humour. It had been a life changing event for her, but maybe not for him. Maybe for him it had been scratching an itch, a cheap roll in the hay. A quickie. A one night-stand. It was ugly no matter how she described it, and she suddenly felt naked, exposed, and pulled the sheet up to hide her body from him. Maybe...her inexperience had disgusted him. Maybe she hadn’t been able to give him the same pleasure she had found in their joining. Maybe...maybe...Maker...she wasn’t tight enough or good enough.

She remembered how he pulled away from her at the last minute and blanched. Yes, that must have been it. She had been...insufficient.

“It was fine...” Fenris mumbled and then noticed how wide her eyes got with hurt before she turned them away. He quickly corrected himself. “That was insufficient,” he said failing to notice how she flinched at the word. “It was better than anything I could have dreamed of.”

“Is it your markings?” she turned to him with new hope rising inside her at the passionate words. “They hurt, didn’t they?”

“It’s not that...” he made a dismissive gesture. “I had flashes...memories of my life before. For just one moment I could recall everything and then...then they were gone.”

Was that it? She felt the small bubble of hope getting bigger. “We can work through this Fenris,” she said.

He shook his head and the bubble burst with an almost edible pop in her heart. “You don’t understand how upsetting this is...I never had any intention of this happening between us. This is too fast, too much, too soon. I can’t...I just can’t.” He looked at her then, and if her heart hadn’t been breaking, it would have gone out to him, to the pain and anguish in his eyes.

“I feel like such a fool. Forgive me,” he said before turning his back to her and moving to the door.

He heard her voice whispering behind him, a sad little voice, so lost and confused, and he nearly turned back to go to her, before he controlled himself.

“But...I love you,” she said and drew a deep shuddering breath, a sob already starting.

Fenris let the pain slash through him, let it shred his heart. She didn’t really. She was just infatuated, confusing intimacy with love. He stubbornly refused the urge to turn and look at her, knowing that at the sight of her tears he would be lost, totally enslaved to her, to the pleasure he had found in her soft body, to the promise, the false promise of love.

Despite himself though, his step had faltered and then stopped altogether. He could not take another step further. The door was there, beckoning him, the burning desire to just slink away like a wounded wolf and find a quiet, safe place to lick his wounds was screaming in his head. He couldn’t do this, he couldn’t face finding and losing himself all over again every time he touched her. It was just too much.

“You don’t really mean that, Hawke,” he said, keeping his voice impassive. Then the sudden desire to hurt her, the vicious need to protect himself from the cage of her affection rose inside him and made him cruel. “It was just sex.”

He slammed the door behind him and pretended not to hear her shocked gasp.

* * *

_I don’t know why the damned elf scampered like a frightened mouse that night.  I have thought about it a thousand times. Afterwards, whenever I had asked him, he had just tightened his lips, looked away and played the statue._

_What could have possessed a male of any species to be so stupid?_

_And Hawke? What was going through her mind? A woman that had been gang raped at age fifteen in the most brutal manner you can imagine, finally trusting a man enough to give him her body and her heart- getting what in the end? A thank you ma’am? Not even that?_

_Did the stupid, shit-for-brains mongrel dog of an elf even think of what walking out that door did to her that night?_

_Don’t bet on it._

 


	20. Chapter 20

Anders was tired. Bone-weary and exhausted, both physically and mentally, not to mention emotionally. He had been treating patients since returning; some stomach bug had been running rampant through the population of Darktown, causing vomiting and diarrhoea. Three young children had already succumbed to it, and half of the refugees in Darktown were too ill to even visit his clinic.

He suspected some merchant had been selling rotten meat to the denizens of this gloomy part of town, and his indignation had been growing all day, with every case he treated. He was glad he could help. He really was. But he could help but feel resentful either. All these people looking at him with hope and gratitude in their eyes were the same ones that recoiled from him when he passed them in the street. How easily people forgot he was a mage, feared and abhorred, when they had need of him and his ‘curse’.

He sighed and rubbed a weary hand over his eyes. Maker, he was tired! Tired of not ever fitting in, tired of being the odd one out, of never belonging. He was exhausted. His soul was yearning for some semblance of acceptance and for a while he thought he had found it, here in Darktown. But it was a sham, and he knew it. Deep down inside he had always known it. If he wasn’t useful, if he wasn’t the healer everybody ran to, he would have found the blighted templars on his doorstep faster than you could say _tranquil_.

He had had a small mug of ale at the Hanged Man, not even Justice able to stop him. He wished he had drunk some more. He wished he had drowned himself in ale and cheap booze tonight; maybe his heart would stop aching then.

He heard a faint tapping on the door and groaned out loudly in frustration. It was late. Middle of the damned night. The lantern was not lit. Didn’t these people understand that he needed to sleep too?

He moved to the door and forcefully wrenched it open, fully intending to send whoever had come knocking at this ungodly hour home. Unless of course they were seriously ill. _Bugger my tender heart,_ he thought. _I’m too soft for my own good_.

He didn’t see anyone and addressing some choice curse words to naughty brats and pranksters he turned to get back in and finally get some sleep. That’s when he saw her, leaning against the ramshackle wall of his clinic, dressed in a loose tunic and a pair of leather breeches. Her shoulders were slumped and her head bowed down, as if she was sleeping. He hesitantly put a hand against her shoulder and shook her, suddenly afraid.

“Hawke,” he whispered, gentling his voice on instinct. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?”

She lifted her head as if waking from a dream and for a moment Anders’ breath caught at the anguish in her eyes, before she seemed to collect herself. Her shoulders tensed and her face took on a grim expression, resolve making her whole posture stiffen up. She seemed brittle and tense, as if on the edge of flying into one of her tempers, and Anders’ spine became rigid in response.

“I need your help,” she said through gritted teeth, her eyes determined and decisive. “No questions asked.”

“Anything, Hawke,” the answer tumbled out of him, without any hesitation. “I am at your disposal.”

“I need a physical,” she said, looking away, a small tinge of pink colouring her face. “The ...intimate kind.”

 _Oh, just kill me_ , he thought, the idea making him blush to the root of his hair. He would have to look at her... down there? _Maker, help me. Andraste, help me.  Somebody, please, help me_. Was there a patron god of professionalism somewhere he could pray to? 

He run a hand through his hair, trying to slow the suddenly frantic beating of his heart down, when he noticed her eyes were on him, watching him with an almost desperately anxious look. He nodded once, unable to refuse her, sensing that this was important for her for some reason. And now that the initial shock was wearing down, his mind had started reeling with questions and possibilities. Had something happened? Had she...with the elf? Did she need a potion to prevent...oh, sweet Andraste, she could be conceiving his child at this very moment. She had been looking for him earlier this evening. Maker, if that rapid wolf had hurt her in any way, if he had gotten her with child, he would kill him, painfully and agonizingly slowly. He opened his mouth to speak, but she raised a hand and stopped him.

“No questions. Please...Anders, no questions. I will go to a stranger, I swear.”

He nodded again, his lips tensing in a grim line, before ushering her inside.

What they both didn’t notice, though, was a pair of eyes watching them in shock and anger from the deep shadows across the street. A pair of green eyes, narrowed in suspicion. Once the door had closed behind them, a lean figure slipped from the cover of shadows and approached the clinic. There were many cracks among the loose planks that made up the walls of the rickety structure, some of them wide enough for him to watch the mage and Hawke.

He watched, unable to stop himself, as Hawke removed her clothes and lay down for that accursed mage, he watched, hands clenching in impotent rage, as Anders ran his hands over her body, as he put his hands on her, _in her_ , murmuring to her the whole time. Her head rolled to the side, and he thought her eyes met his for a moment, before she shut them tightly.

And then he could watch no more. With a growl starting to vibrate in his chest, threatening to evolve into a scream of fury, he turned and walked away.

* * *

Anders turned form her, shoulders visibly shaking, and tried to compose himself before he had to face her again. He could feel his whole face burn. Maker, that was not how he had hoped he would see her naked before him! He clenched and unclenched his hands, trying to control himself. He could not believe he had...oh, Maker. His fingers had been buried in her body. How he had managed to maintain a professional, medical expression, was beyond him.

Maybe it was how she had tensed, how her whole body had trembled with the strain. Anders was neither a fool nor blind. He could see what it cost her to let him do this, what amazing reserves of self-control and determination she had tapped into to avoid crying, or whimpering. She had bit her lip nearly through, and she had been redder than a ripe tomato.

The question was why? What had made her ask for this...examination? He could see nothing wrong with her, other than the tear-jerking evidence of past abuse. He could also see evidence of ...recent activity, and bile had risen at the back of his throat at that thought. So he hadn’t been wrong. That blighted elf had somehow hurt her. Maker help him, if he had forced himself on Hawke, he would...

“So?” her voice interrupted his murderous thoughts.

“So what?” he shot back, a bit more aggressively than he had intended. “What was I looking for, Hawke? It’s too early to tell if you are pregnant if that is what you were wondering about.”

She cringed, and he immediately felt about three inches tall.

“No, there is no chance of that...” she said and blushed again. “He didn’t actually...you know. Inside of me.” Her head dropped. “I wasn’t even worth _that_.”

Anders’ head shot up and his eyes narrowed. “Hawke?”

She looked away and took a deep breath. When she turned back to him, her lips were firmed and she had lifted her chin up, determined, proud and strong, like always. But Anders had heard the little lost girl in the tone of her voice, and wasn’t going to be fooled by this show of bravado.

“What did he do?”

“He left,” she just said. “And I need to know why.  Am I...” she stumbled and stuttered again, “am I ...too wide? Too damaged? Disgusting? I need to know, Anders.”

The blue light flickering on his skin immediately died out and an incredibly sad look came upon his eyes. _Damn him_ , he thought, his heart breaking into a million small pieces. _Damn that sodding elf to the farther reaches of the Void. May his dick wither and shrivel off_.

“Oh, Hawke!” he reached automatically for her but she batted his hands away.

“Do NOT pity me, Anders!” she hissed. “I don’t need your pity. I just need an answer. Am I repulsive? Unable to give a man pleasure? Tell me, damn you!”

He ignored her anger and drew her into his arms, his eyes growing moist. _May he be eaten by darkspawn, dick first. May an ogre catch him and rape him, the bastard_!

She struggled wildly at first, trying to get away, but he held on, tears now starting to seep over his eyelashes. _Hawke. My beautiful, strong Hawke. What has he done to you?_ He started crooning to her, murmuring sweet nothings, like he would to a frightened child, or a skittish animal. Gradually she relaxed and her head nestled on his shoulder.

“There is nothing wrong with you, baby,” he whispered. “Trust me. He is a fool. You are physically perfect; any man should be honoured to have you”

She shook her head, and took a deep breath.  “Then it must be something else, “she said in a small, sad voice. “I am too...manly. Not feminine enough. Is that it?”

Anders started swearing and cursing the elf out loud now and only stopped when he realised his ire was making her tense up again.

He tried to pry her head from his shoulder, but she resisted. Undaunted, he raised her head almost violently up and held her face in both his palms, his breath hitching at the tears shimmering in her eyes.

“Look at me,” he insisted when she tried to look away, to close her eyes. A tear slipped and fell down her face, making his chest ache like he had been punched. She obeyed him though, and he poured every ounce of conviction in his warm amber eyes as they met her brilliant blue ones.

“You. Are. Perfect,” he enunciated. “There is nothing wrong with you. He is the one to blame, not you. Trust me, Marian. You are perfect.”

She tried to smile at him, and it was such a heartrending, feeble effort that he wished she hadn’t. She nodded once, and pulled out of his arms. This time he let her go, still aching inside, feeling that the comfort he had offered her was not enough. He reached out to grab her hand but she moved away with that agile speed of hers, moving to the door.

“Don’t go, Hawke,” he pleaded to her. “Please, stay here. I won't try anything, I swear. I just can’t bear the thought of you being alone.”

“Don’t worry Anders. I will be alright,” she said, walking to the door. “Thank you for everything.”

 Just before she left, she turned to him, shot him a sad smile and slew him with her next words.

“I wish my heart had chosen you, Anders.”

He just stood there, aching inside, knowing that it was probably his own cowardice that had allowed that blasted knife-ears to do this to her. If he hadn’t backed out, if he had fought for her, maybe now she would be his. And if he ever had her, no force in the Universe would be able to tear him away from her side.

He sighed. Then he started cursing again, but this time he included his own self to the curses.

* * *

Fenris didn’t know where his feet had led him to, had no idea where he had wondered off to. His fee had moved on their own, one foot in front of the other, until to his surprise, they had brought him back to Anders’ clinic. He looked at the ramshackle structure, willing it to burst into flames and burn around them both. If anger could light fires, his would. He felt a deep hollow in the place of his heart, a deep and agonising gap. How could she have gone from his arms to the mage’s within hours? How could she have betrayed him like this?

He clenched his hands again, the sharp talons of his gauntlets digging bloody welts into his own flesh, and dismissed the little voice of logic in his brain that whispered he had no right to judge her, or demand her loyalty, when he had just deserted her on the same bed he had taken her... but still, for her to open her legs to someone else, _to the abomination of all people_ , so soon afterwards was unthinkable. Were the fear and the hesitation all a ruse? Had she pretended to have issues with intimacy? Why would she?

And then he remembered the day he had overheard the Prince propose to her and the reason that she had denied him; that she was not able to allow a man near her in that way. Suddenly, his overly suspicious mind found the reason it had been looking for; he was unable to believe Hawke had given herself to him because she loved him, as she had said. What was there of him to love? There must have been a deeper, secret reason, and suddenly he was certain he had discovered it: she had been seeking nothing else other than experience. She had wanted to say yes to the Prince, but Fenris was the one she felt more comfortable with physically, because of their common experiences.

She had used him to get over her fear of sex. Plain as day, that must have been the reason.

The door opened at that very same moment and he watched Hawke come out, righting her clothes. Anders appeared, tried to pull her back, but she just smiled sadly, cupped his face with one hand and leaned to whisper something in the sodding mage’s ear. He leaned in, kissed her forehead and reluctantly let her go, holding on to her hand until she pulled it away.

 _Why wouldn’t he?_ He thought, his teeth clenching.   _She is a good lay. One of the best. I taught her well._

He followed her, feeling like a fool and when she entered the Blooming Rose he became certain his suspicion had been correct. A drunken man came out and gave him a leering smile, looking at him appreciatively from head to toes. Feeling disgusted, used and strangely violated, Fenris let out a few choices curses, spat at the feet of the drunken man and let his markings alight. The man wasn’t so drunk as not to understand the threat in the elf’s posture and hurriedly moved away. Still cursing a blue streak, Fenris settled against the far wall to wait for her. He had no idea what he would tell her, but his mood was murderous.

It was a good thing it took her hours to get out, because by that time, Fenris had managed to convince himself she wasn’t worth even his anger, just his contempt. She came out hand in hand with Isabela, and his only thought was that _whores stick together_.

He turned and left, returning straight to his mansion where he attempted to forget everything in a haze of alcohol. As if drinking, getting royally sloshed, was enough to wipe from his memory the fact that for one heartbreaking moment he had been sorely tempted to believe her lies, that he had been about to throw caution to the wind and return to her, begging her forgiveness and telling her he loved her.

Love. It was a notion reserved for the naive and the foolish, and he was neither. Life had taught him that there were two kinds of people: abusers and victims. And it was a lesson he had learnt well, even if for a while he had been tempted to forget it, lured by the promise of tenderness and affection.

He had nearly made himself a victim for her sake.

He wouldn’t make that mistake twice.

* * *

When Hawke had first gone into the Blooming Rose, a whole host of ‘entertainers’, both male and female had approached her and made her suggestions; one look at the expression on her face was enough to make even the thickest among them scurry off with a hurried excuse. This was not a woman that had come here for pleasure; the workers in this place were all well accustomed with despair, and they could read it on this woman’s face and posture. She wore heartbreak like an invisible cloak around her, clearly distraught.

Some of the workers kept looking at her as she made her way to Viveka, wondering what had happened to her. Some remembered the strong, confident warrior that had stormed this place a few years ago, looking for lost templar recruits. She looked brittle and fragile now, no matter how much she tried to appear self-assured and relaxed. More than a few of the male whores also looked at her curves appreciatively, easily discerned under the thin tunic.

As she made her way up the stairs in search of Isabela, most of the ‘workers’ followed her with their eyes; a beautiful, captivating woman, that was known for being a capable and ruthless warrior, suddenly appearing as fragile as a porcelain doll, looking for the pirate queen. Gossip was the only source of entertainment here, and they gathered around to do just that.

Hawke ignored the questioning looks, the appreciative glances, the lewd suggestions. She needed answers, and she needed them now. She needed her friend, the woman she trusted more than she would her own sister. Isabela was being ‘entertained’ by one of the male whores she knew, Jethan. She didn’t want to interrupt, but Maker, she felt like a piece of wire stretched too thin; any minute now she would snap and she would either start raging or bawling like a child.

She made her way tiredly up the stairs, her body feeling like that of an old woman, weary and brittle. The door to Jethan’s room was slightly ajar and she peeked inside.

What she saw made all her blood climb to her face and her breath hitch. She looked away, but then her curiosity got the better of her and she watched the couple with riveted eyes, the way Isabela pleasured the elf, the way she took her time to drive him crazy.

She had done none of the things Isabela was doing, she hadn’t licked him like that, or taken him into her mouth, she hadn’t whispered the naughty, indecent things Isabela was whispering that made the elf moan and go wild.

Blushing furiously, she pulled back, and leaned against the wall. _So that was why_. She _had_ been inadequate. How could he have stayed? She had just lain there like a wooden doll. No wonder he had left; what would he have stayed for? She was obviously a failure at this whole pleasure thing.

He had left because she had failed to please him.

She was a failure. As a woman, as a lover, as a female.

Tears of humiliation and disappointed burning at the back of her eyes, she climbed down and settled at a table for Isabela to de done, and ordered a bottle of their strongest whisky. She poured herself a stiff drink and downed it, grateful for the warmth that spread though her and for the fog that it brought to her head.

At the third glass, she started hearing voices echoing in her head, ugly, lewd voices, slurred with drink and lust. _Don’t get the little slut pregnant. She’s not worth it,_ one voice had ordered, and none of the slavers had dared disobey it, coming on her stomach and ass, just like Fenris had. _You’re a cold little thing, aren’t you?_ another leering voice had asked once the owner had failed to elicit the screams he had wanted.

 _When we’re done with you, nobody will ever enjoy this little cunt again,_ another voice had hissed.

She had been dismissing all this voices as lies and taunts all these years.

But they weren’t, were they?

When Isabela came down, hours later, Hawke was nearly sloshed. She had never seen her friend drink like that, and tried hard to understand what exactly had happened to bring her to this state, but all she had been mumbling about was someone who had left, and that she was a wooden doll, and useless.

Unable to make head of tails of her drunken mumblings she pulled her to her feet, and hand in hand, led her out the door and towards her house. Bodahn let them in, a sleepy look on his face, and she took Hawke upstairs, where she carefully undressed Hawke and tried to make her lie down.

That’s when she started getting a good idea of what had happened, because at the sight of the bed, Hawke started kicking and screaming, and begging no to make her sleep on it, that she couldn’t take it, that it smelled like him, and Isabela had grown cold and furious.

She caught Hawke by the shoulders and gave her a shake.

“Who was it?” the pirate’s voice was deadly.

Hawke eyes misted and she suddenly went utterly still.  “Fenris...” she whispered.

“Did he hurt you?”

Hawke shook her head no, but the sadness in her eyes was telling the rogue another story. She slowly retreated to the fireplace, where she lay down in front of the fire and sighed, with Isabela hovering around her. The busty pirate brought a blanket from the bed and covered her with it, before asking for the last time “Hawke...what did he do? Tell me honey...If he hurt you, I will kill him.”

Hawke closed her eyes, and then a sigh, deep, tortured, pained, escaped her.

“He....left... Not ...’is fault.”

And she blacked out. Isabela decided to stand vigil until the morning, find out what had really happened and then go kill the bastard if she had to.

It was a good thing that she stayed, because when the nightmares came,  she was able to silence her friend before half of Hightown came to her door...

* * *

_I don’t know what to say...I don’t think any of us had the ability to understand how broken Hawke was after all that, or how angry the elf was in his ignorance. Maybe, if Anders had gone to confront him like he wanted to, he would have set a few things straight, but then again Fenris was more probable to kill the mage on sight than listen._

_Maybe if Hawke hadn’t been so drunk that night, Isabela would have understood what was going on better, and not made the stupid assumption that the elf had just left because Hawke had not been able to sleep with him._

_Regardless, she shouldn’t have taken it up to her to fix the situation without even knowing what was really going on; but that was Isabela for you, always impulsive and impatient. She thought they had just had a little lovers’ spat, and decided that jealousy was the way to go to make the elf see the light._

_She spread a rumour (she needn’t do much more than tell Bodahn) that Hawke had accepted the proposal of the Prince of Starkhaven, Sebastian Vael, and by noon it was running rampant through Hightown. By next morning, the elf had heard it._

_And that’s when the nugshit really started flying..._


	21. Chapter 21

When she was informed of the rumour that had been going around the Hightown market all day, she moaned, the headache pounding in her head instantly  became even worse. She immediately knew who the culprit was, although for the life of her, she couldn’t grasp why she had gone and spread such ridiculous lies. Her eyes fell to the small wooden box on her desk. Maybe she had snooped around while she had been here last night, and had found the ring. It had the Stark ~~a~~ haven crest on it, it was easy to understand who had given it to her.

Just at that moment, Isabela walked in with a wide, happy smile on her face, followed by Merrill. Hawke folded her arms over her chest and sent her a blisteringly angry look.

“What did I do?” Isabela feigned innocence.

Hawke snorted. She wasn’t so easily fooled.

“Why did you spread that ridiculous tale, Isabela?”

Merrill looked from one woman to the other, confused as always. “What tale?”

Hawke pointed to the Rivaini.

“Isabela here thought it funny to spread a rumour that I am going to marry Sebastian. I am not amused.”

Isabela seemed to not even pay attention to her ire; instead she perused the books in the library with a bored expression.

“When the elf hears of it, you will thank me, trust me,” she drawled and then smiled. “He will rush in here to stop you, realising that he might lose you...”

“...and you will live happily ever after with babies and kittens and puppies...!” Merrill added with a happy, naive smile. “That’s how all of her books end, anyway,” she nodded towards Isabela.

Hawke’s eyes were shadowed with pain. “This is not a romance story, Isabela, this is my life. Fenris isn’t coming back... he has nothing to come back for.”

“Nonsense!” Isabela waved dismissively. “He loves you. Jealousy will make him see. Trust me. I know how these things work, kitten.”

Hawke looked at her with a faint glimmer of hope creeping back into her defeated expression.

 _Maker, make her be right_ , she pleaded.

_Make her be right. Even a little right. That’s all I ask for._

* * *

She was scribbling away at her desk the next morning, answering a bunch of letters, when the loud bang of the door in the antechamber being slammed made her jolt. She looked at the ink smear on her cautiously inked handwriting and sighed. She would have to do this all over. It had soothed her nerves for a while, to sit down and carefully scribble; it was better than staring at the wall, hope and despair warring inside her.

“Is it true?” A gravely tone on a normally velvety voice made her nearly jump. She turned around to see Fenris standing at the door of the library, his expression hidden behind the white bangs that shadowed his face.

“Is what true?” she asked, carefully putting her quill and inkpot away, using the mundane, everyday movement as a way to calm her suddenly frazzled nerves.

“You have agreed to marry the Prince?” Fenris demanded. “Are congratulations in order?”

She looked him over and had to fight hard to hide her little triumphant smile. Isabela had been right. Jealousy. A wild surge of hope rushed through her, making her almost giddy. There was still hope for them. _There was still hope_. He cared enough to be jealous. That was something, wasn’t it?

“Are you here to stop me?” she challenged him, a small smile starting to uncurl.

“Stop you!” Fenris gestured wildly.  “Ha! As if it weren’t what you had intended all along...tell me Hawke, did you at least enjoy your lessons?”

Hawke shot him a puzzled look. She suddenly realised how angry he was; murderously so. Something trembled in her chest; something started screaming that something was wrong and hope began to shrivel and die. This was not a man who had come to stop the woman he loved from marrying someone else. This was a man who had resigned to it and was feeling betrayed. Anger started swelling inside her. As if he had a right to be angry after the way he had used her and discarded her. As if he had a right to be furious, or act like the wounded party in this whole thing.

“What lessons?” she made an irritated, impatient gesture. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“The lessons you received that night. First by me, then Anders, then at the Blooming Rose. I saw you.”

She nearly stumbled and fell. What did he mean? What had he seen? Maker, he had seen Anders...Andraste help her, what had he thought?

“You...you saw me?” she stuttered, her eyes huge. “What...what did you see?”

Fenris spared her a contemptuous look and dying hope was replaced by increasing dread. Why was he looking at her like that, as if she was something vile he had stepped on? 

“I foolishly followed you that night, concerned that I had upset you.”

“Upset me?”

“But I saw you with that abomination and started realising some things...” Fenris spat. “Then, when you went to the Blooming Rose, I became certain. This little charade of yours, that little game you played with me...it was all to overcome your fear of intimacy, was it not? So you could marry your prince.”

Hawke drew a startled gasp. Maker, was that what he had thought? That she had used him? Was she nothing more than a whore in his eyes?

“You don’t know what you are talking about, Fenris, let me explain...”

“No need for explanations. I saw you spread your legs for that blighted abomination, I saw him put his fingers in your...in your cunt.” His eyes narrowed even more at her shocked gasp and he sneered at her.  “What, shocked at the word? I could use a more refined expression, but I’m sure you hear it quite a lot at the Blooming Rose. What need of explanations is there? You stayed there for hours. How many did you allow to take you that night?”

She stared at him with pain-glazed eyes, feeling as if she were shattering inside. A sickening headache pounded in her temples, and her hands were trembling. She folded her hands on her chest, hugging herself tightly, trying to bring her shaking muscles under control again.

 “Explanations...Yes, you are right. No need for them. None.” She turned away, closing her eyes briefly against the sudden surge of throbbing pain.  “And to think that...ah, explanations... what lengths I went to in order to find them that night...When the only _explanation_ was right in front of my face.”

“What are you talking about?” his voice was irritated, impatient. “You went looking for cock that night, nothing else.”

“Nothing...” She moved slowly past him, her legs weak and unwilling to work as they should. She avoided looking at him, at the rage on his handsome features as she opened the door and held it open for him. “I don’t think there is nothing else to say. Please, leave my house.”

“Not before you hear everything I have to say!”

“You have more?” her agonised question gave him pause. “Please, no more. If there is any decency left in you, no more.”

“Give me one decent reason why you treated me like a male whore, Hawke, and I shall go.”

“I treated you like....” a little laugh escaped her then and she clasped her hand over her mouth to stop it. “Oh, this is precious.” She tiredly slumped against the wall still clasping the door handle like a life line, feeling like she had aged a thousand years in a few seconds. “Fenris, just go. I owe you no explanations, just like you gave me none that night.”

“I told you about my memories, I gave you a perfectly good reason why I could not...”

She raised a hand in the air to stop him. “You gave me an excuse. An excuse, Fenris. Not the real reason. ”

 “Enlighten me then,” he challenged with a leer, “since you seem to read me like an open book. What was my reason?”

“You never lo...cared for me. That is the reason. And you never will.”

He growled then, his rage climbing to new heights. The nerve of her, talking of love with all the damning proof she didn’t even dare to deny.

“And you do? You think me gullible enough to believe your lies?”

Her hand clenched even more on the door handle.

“Please go. This is the last time I say it nicely.” A hard glint was starting to light her eyes too, as anger started struggling with pain.  “Next time, swords will do the talking. Go.”

“With pleasure!” he spat and moved past her, not even looking at her.

He was already through the door, when the thought came to Hawke that this was the third time she was watching him go. Suddenly, it was too much. He had to know what he had done to her, how much he had hurt her. To the Void with being strong, with showing no emotion; he had to know he had ravaged her like a wild beast. She couldn’t just shrug this off, and the pain in her heart was too great to be bottled down.

“Fenris...” she called out to him and he stopped and half-turned towards him, his face still a mask of furious anger.

“What?” he spat.

“That night...I asked you not to hurt me, remember?”

“Yes.” He nodded, and something gentled in his expression for just a second before he tensed up again. “I distinctly remember you enjoying yourself, Hawke, so do not even think of trying to...”

“If I were raped again tomorrow, violated and sodomised like I was...It will still hurt less in comparison to what you did to me. Both that night and...just now. I hope one day you will understand this,” she brutally said and started closing the door behind him.

He reacted as if someone had tossed a bucket of ice cold water on his head; step halting and faltering in mid-air he turned to her, pushed through the door and grabbed her by the shoulders, his eyes huge and stunned- and furious. She pulled back and put some distance between them, flinching from his touch as if it had burned her.

“HAWKE!” he bellowed, totally taken aback. He was the injured party here, not her. How dare she say something like this? It was a malicious effort to make him feel guilty; as if he had been the one to hurt her, not the other way around, as if he had betrayed her, not her him. He hushed the little voice that whispered _you left her_ in his mind and stalked towards her. This would not go unpunished. She had no right. She had no right saying things like that to him, after he had seen her...with him. He used the crudest words he could come up with in his mind, feeding oil to the fire of his anger and effectively dulling the ache and longing the memories of her writhing beneath him inadvertently brought _. She had no right trying to make him feel guilty after he had seen her being fucked by that blasted abomination, scant minutes after his own cum had dried on her body_.

She watched him approach and a whole host of emotions played on her face; anger, frustration, disappointment and then nothing but misery and tiredness.

He stopped again, caught off guard once more, and he turned her words over in his mind again, trying to find any hidden meaning he might have missed. There was no maliciousness, no desire to hurt him on her face. Just honest pain and a tired, defeated expression.

He started doubting himself, the idea that he might have misunderstood something, that he might have wronged her somehow starting to push through his ire and take root in his mind. He had left her, but what of it? It wasn’t like he had anything more than sex to offer her and she knew that, she must have known it. Even if she loved him like she had claimed...

Maker what if she really loved him?

Cold dread went through him at the thought, fear and panic. If she did love him what he had done that night, leaving her after she had given herself to him was inexcusable. But no, it was impossible. What would a woman like Hawke have found in a bitter, angry elf to love? He had done nothing to deserve it. No. He couldn’t, wouldn’t believe that, not for one instance. Love was a notion reserved for fools. He was nothing but.

She had used the ex-slave that had also been forced and raped to come over her own fear of sex. The only connection between them was that she had been able to let him touch her because they’d had similar experiences.

“How did I hurt you?” he asked and all he received as an answer was a tired sigh. “Was I rough? Did I leave you sore?”

She turned around, staring at the fire, resolutely avoiding his eyes as a little blush rose. How could she explain? How could she tell him that he had left her body incredibly content and her heart ravaged? How was it possible that he could not understand it himself? He had just come here, accusing her that all she had wanted was sex; was he daft? She could have had that with anyone. She could have had Sebastian or Anders help her with her inexperience. She hadn’t been able to, because he’d been the only one to speak to her heart.

No. She would give him no explanations. If he thought so little of her to think she could have gone from his arms to another man’s and then to a brothel to be...to be serviced, then so be it. A man that loved you could not think so little of you. She bit her lips to stop the trembling. It was time she came to grips with it: _he didn’t love her_. He didn’t even have the rudimentary respect for her as a person that would mean there was any hope of him ever loving her. _Maker, did he even like her?_

“Just...leave. Go. Get out of my sight, Fenris. Go.”

“Hawke...no. Explain what you mean. I can’t leave after what you just said. How did I hurt you?”

She refused to speak, to even acknowledge him. Truth be told, she couldn’t. She felt so numb, so cold. She felt like a huge block of ice was encasing her.

Suddenly, like a coiled snake he stroke, and pinned her against the wall, his markings alight, his hand over her heart. She looked into his stormy green eyes, seeing rage and hurt burning there. His voice was so low and strained it was almost guttural when he next spoke.

“How did I hurt you? TELL ME!”

She smiled and suddenly her anger rose like a dark wave set to crash and drown her. She sneered at him and barred her teeth. He wanted to be cruel, fine, she could be cruel too. She could taunt him and toy with him too. She raised her head high, challenging him with a feral glint in her catlike eyes. “Come on...do it. Rip my heart out. Literally this time.” His markings abruptly stopped glowing and a startled look crossed his face before he took a step back. He swallowed hard and she smiled; a fuming, furious smile.  Grasping his hand she placed it over her heart again. “Come on, Fenris, what are you waiting for? Do it. I’m just a little teasing slut, right? I fucked left and right that night, I humped everything that moved, right? I spread my legs for half of Kirkwall. I’m nothing but a cock-hungry little cunt. Come on. What are you waiting for? Or are you a bigger coward than I thought?”

Fenris took another step back. He looked at her with a lost look in his eyes for a few seconds, a bewildered and pained expression, like a puppy that had unexpectedly been viciously kicked by a so far loving owner. It lasted only a second and then his eyes narrowed, his fists clenched so hard that veins popped out on his arms, and his markings flared to life, bathing them in an unearthly blue light. 

“May you rot in the Void, Hawke,” he spat, his fists clenched so tight that he could feel his nails leave half crescent wounds in his palms. “Rot and die.”

“Thank you, Fenris,” she smiled, a fake, forced smile, her voice saccharine sweet. She gave a little demented laugh.  “I probably will,” she added, raising a tired hand to her forehead and looking away. Her shoulders slumped as her anger drained away and she turned away to hide how utterly, pathetically defeated she suddenly felt. Coldness was still spreading inside her like fast moving poison, numbing her, thankfully shutting the pain down; where minutes before it was like a throbbing, angry wound on her soul, it was suddenly reduced to nothing.

 Merciful emptiness. Merciful coldness. At least the sensation of having been gutted would go away.

She was going into emotional shock, and her body was closing down its reactions to survive the almost physical anguish. She would grieve later, but right now, fortunately, her own body was protecting her. She looked at him one last time, her eyes roving over his fuming face, his velvety green eyes, now seething with contempt and rage, his lithe body, just a heartbeat away from losing all control and pouncing on her to kill her. She toyed with the idea of taunting him a bit more, until he finally snapped and took her heart out, until he finished her off, physically as well as emotionally.

She smiled wryly at herself. Too bad she wasn’t a quitter. Quitting, giving up, had never sounded better. But she couldn’t. She just didn’t have it in her to quit. She was one of those people that kept going no matter what, that found the strength to continue no matter how broken.

Her smile turned bitter. _I will find a way to get through this. I must. I MUST. There is no other choice._

He noticed her smile and his lip curled into a leering, contemptuous sneer.

Feeling disgust and loathing, he spat on the expensive rug in front of her, tossed her the most offensive curse words he could think of in Tevene, and left.

 She kept smiling.

It was over.

 At least it was over.

The pain could only get better from now on. Right?

* * *

Morning gave way to afternoon and then early evening and she was still sitting in the same seat, her eyes lost on the same spot against the wall. People had come and gone, voices had begged her to speak to them, to eat something, to move. She couldn’t.

Suddenly as if something inside had just painfully, abruptly snapped, she got to her feet and looked around with a panicked look on her face. She had to get out of here. She had to get away.

Without even thinking she grabbed her sword and nearly ran out the door, not answering Bodahn’s frantic questions as she passed the dwarf in the hall.

She ran. All she could do was run.

Her step only faltered when she passed the florists shop in the market; the old woman was busy packing her ware but she spared a smile for Hawke, one of her best customers. The smile on the old woman’s smile died as she saw the wild, frantic look on the young woman’s eyes; when she selected a yellow carnation from among the flowers, her heart clenched and she felt the desire to pull the raven-haired beauty into her arms to comfort her. She didn’t get the chance; quick as lightning the girl had started running again, tossing a few coins behind her.

Hawke reached Fenris’ house and opened the door with noiseless fingers. She made it up to his room, walking like a ghost, silently and softly, and snuck in through the half-opened door. He was sleeping on the desk, his head supported on his folded arms, a huge array of wine bottles around him.

Hawke reached out a hand to touch him, to brush away the strands of silky white hair that had fallen across his face, but then something clenched inside her, as if a vicious animal had taken a bite out of her insides, and a sharp pain flooded her, nearly bringing her to her knees. She pulled her hand away as if it had been burned and clasped it over her mouth, to stop the sob that was clawing its way out of her throat. Without a sound, like a wraith, she turned around and propped her sword against the wall next to the door, securing the flower to its hilt with a piece of red cloth she always carried with her to clean her blade.

She gave him one last look, the man she had fallen in love with, the man that had slain her heart, that had pulled it out and stomped on it without a care, and the first tears started rolling down her face.

_Why couldn’t he have loved me just a little? Just a little bit. I wasn't asking for much...just a little._

She knew she had to get out, she would start sobbing soon, and when the dam broke, she had to be far, far away, so nobody would see how utterly pathetic she was.

Strong? She was strong? She had said that for herself?

_What lies._

She ran. It was all she could do.

She passed through the streets of Hightown, then Lowtown, then the gates of the City. Still running, always running, eerily silent in the dim light, avoiding people until she had reached the Wounded Coast where there was no one to see her, no one to hear her break down.

And still she ran.

There was a small cave high in the sheer rock face of the beach they had stayed at that blistering hot day before Hadriana. Hawke had seen it that day and now remembered it. It was high up enough not to be immediately noticed, overlooking the ocean; once the sea swelled with he tide the waves wouldn’t reach it, the small beach would disappear until the waters drew back. She ran nearly all the way there finding her way unerringly in the fading light, and climbed the sheer rock, bloodying her fingernails and scrapping her knees.

Only when she was safely seated inside the small alcove did she allow herself to rest, slumping down and putting her head on her knees; her breath was panting, sawing in her lungs, and she had a hard time swallowing at the dryness in her throat. The sun lunged under the horizon, and night fell, enveloping her like a soft, comforting blanket- only that there was no comfort to be found for her.

Her panting eased, but another sound started building inside her, gaining strength, rushing outwards like a dark wave that couldn’t be stopped, that swelled and gained force before crushing on the beach in a deafening roar. It was a scream, and Hawke heard herself letting it out, surprised that the sound had come from her; it ended with a lengthy, agonised keening sound.

Then the sobs came.

And they didn’t stop.

* * *

She was still crying when the morning came, her voice hoarse and her eyes bloodshot, puffed closed; she couldn’t stop. It was like a faucet had been opened inside her and all the tears she had refused to let fall all these years came out at once. She had fought so hard to be strong, to not show emotion, to not show her pain. Now the bottled up feelings were finally getting their revenge, ravaging her with the force of her weeping.

She cried for everything that had ever been taken from her; her innocence, her father, her home, her siblings and her mother; she screamed and bellowed for them, cried like she had refused to cry over their actual loss. She’d had to be strong then, and she had been. But no more. She couldn’t bear the weight of the world alone anymore; it was too much and now it was crushing her.

Finally she fell asleep, exhausted by the force of her grief and woke up again when the sun was once more setting. There was a small waterfall running down the cliff, its water close enough to the mouth of the cave for her to wet her fingers if she stretched her arm out as far as she could. She tried to drink, to wet her mouth, but her throat had closed, making it painful to swallow.

She just stood there, trying to suckle a bit of moisture from her wet fingers when the sun sank again. As if it was a signal of some kind, she started crying again, tears streaming down her face, little sobs and gasps escaping her. _Fenris_ , was all that she said, and then slid down to her knees again and the weeping and wailing and the screams started again.

A storm rose suddenly out of the ocean and huge waves started hitting the cliff, while the wind wailed like a mother for her lost children. She was thankful for it, as it covered her own screams. She thought she heard voices calling her name in the wind, sometimes loving familiar voices that cried out with her, other times cold, leering voices taunting her and making her curl up into a little ball and beg for it to stop. Above all, she heard his voice, telling her _may you rot and die, Hawke_ and she screamed to drown it out until she felt something crack in her throat; she could make no more sound.

Sleep was a welcome reprieve when it finally came.

* * *

_Three days. For three days we looked for her, combed Kirkwall and then the Wounded Coast and Sundermount. Nothing. No trace of her._

_The only thing we found was her sword. She had left it next to the door in Fenris’ mansion, a flower wrapped around its hilt, tied with a red ribbon. We didn’t see it at first, as we had all stormed his mansion to wake him from a drunken sleep and demanded to know what he had done to her. The elf had gone pale once he had seen it, and run to a stall in the market, a florist’s. There was an old woman there, and she had looked at the wilted flower for a few long minutes before handing it back to the elf with contempt in her eyes._

_He had asked what the flower meant, a yellow carnation if I recall correctly,puzzling all of us._

_“Disappointment,” the woman had said. “And rejection. Love betrayed, hope dashed.”_

_That one, we all understood_.

 

 

 

 

 


	22. Chapter 22

 

Three days after the day she disappeared, Hawke just stumbled into her house, went past all of her friends that were left there staring and wearily went up the stairs to her room. Anders was the first to recover and rush after her. Isabela ran out, to get Aveline, everybody guessed, who had the guard looking everywhere for her. Merrill and Varric timidly went up the stairs too.

Anders nodded to Merrill to come help undress her, shouted to Varric to get the servants to prepare a warm bath and put a sleeping spell over her to help her relax.

“Maker, she is freezing...” he muttered and rubbed her fingers furiously to warm them. They were like slabs of ice, nails broken off and bloodied.

Merrill gently pulled her boots off and rubbed her toes to restore circulation. She was sad and silent, an unusual mood for the babbly, cheerful elf.

“Where do you think she was?” she asked the healer and they exchanged a look. “What do you think she did all these days?”

Anders looked at her and then moved the bangs of hair that had fallen over Hawke’s eyes. Merrill gasped. She had never seen eyes that swollen before, puffy and red from crying as if she had been punched.

“She’s freezing, near hypothermia, and severely dehydrated...” Anders whispered and run his hand over her arm. “Her throat seems to be damaged too. I think I will have to check her vocal cords.”

Merrill brought her own hand to her throat. “Why?” she naively asked.

Anders caressed Hawke’s hand before replying, a sad pitying look on his face.

“I think she cried too much.”

A gasp echoed from behind them and they both turned to the door where a shocked Fenris stood, his face even paler than his white hair.

“Happy?” Anders asked. “This is all your doing, you know.”

The elf raised shocked eyes to the mage’s face. Merrill put her hand on Anders’ arm, silently begging him not to say something to make things worse, feeling sorry for the white-haired warrior that had a completely stricken look on his face, but the blond mage ignored her.

“ She loved you,” Anders said. “She came to me that night, asking me to examine her because she thought there was something physically wrong with her, that she hadn’t pleased you; she was trying to understand why you left. Poor girl. You finally made her realise the only reason was that you didn’t give a flying fuck about her, didn’t you? Good job.”

Fenris nearly staggered into the room and came to his knees next to her bed. He reached out a hand to touch her, but Anders grasped it by the wrist in mid-air, his eyes the familiar eerie blue of Justice’s anger.

“Lay another finger on her,” his voice boomed, “ and I will cut your hands off.”

Fenris jerked his hand back, his eyes wide, his lips nearly trembling before he tensed them and dropped his head in shame.

“I would deserve it,” he admitted, his voice thick with emotion. “Worry not, mage. I will be out of Kirkwall by the end of the week.”

“Good riddance!” Anders spat before turning back to his patient.

Only Merrill’s huge, sad eyes followed the elf as he left the room.

* * *

Varric went to see him a few hours later, berating himself all the way that he was sticking his nose into business that was probably going to see the poor said nose broken, but he just couldn’t ignore the little nagging voice urging him on. Broody....well, Broody was who he was, an emotional porcupine, prickly and dangerous to handle, but Varric had seen the look on his face as he was leaving Hawke’s estate, and he had been left speechless. The blasted elf had done something to Hawke, had broken her heart, but the man Varric saw leaving had had his own heart broken too. Varric hated meddling, he hated taking sides, but this time...this time it was necessary.

Hawke was not doing well. And the only one that could tell them what had really went on was the elf. Varric sighed as he was going up the stairs, fighting with an urge to just storm in there and demand answers. He was angry, furiously angry, but if he was being truthful with himself...he was worried about Fenris too, not just Hawke. He hadn’t liked that look on the elf’s face- not one bit.

He had been expecting to find the elf in his cups, already stinking drunk, so he was surprised when he saw him just sitting there in his favourite armchair, staring at the fire.

“Broody,” Varric just greeted him and moved to sit on the chair across him. “Another epic fail, my friend. We are talking epic saga level here... Care to talk about it?”

Fenris just stared at the fire, his hands between his knees, his head bowed.

“Elf. Fenris. Are you there?”

A sigh answered him.

“How...how is she?” he asked in the end, his voice eerily small.

“Anders says that physically she is fine,” Varric replied. “She has been bathed and fed and put to sleep, and he has healed all her wounds. The ones that show, at least.”

Fenris hoped the knife turning in his guts didn’t show. He sensed that the dwarf would probably enjoy his pain. He had this blasé, disinterested look about him, but Fenris hadn’t spent all that time in his company without being able to see through his facade.

The dwarf was angry.

“So,” Varric shifted on his seat. “Care to tell me what the flying fuck it was you did to her? And careful. Bianca is watching. She does not suffer fools and liars.”

“I am not a liar,” Fenris weekly protested.

“But you are a fool, to put it mildly,” Varric said in a smooth, casual tone, that didn’t manage to hide his anger completely. “Speak.”

“Did she say anything?” Fenris preferred to ignore the command, his face still hidden under the white bangs of his hair and his eyes fixed to the fire.

“No. She can’t.” Varric crossed his legs and looked at the fire too.

Fenris’ head shot up at his words, before dropping once again. “You said... you said she was alright. What is wrong with her?”

“ Her voice is broken. Anders said it will be days before she can talk again and even then her voice will never fully recover. I guess...no singing career for her.”

Fenris flinched as though the dwarf had struck him.

“What...what happened to her?”

“You tell me.”

“Venhedis!” Fenris exploded. “Do I have to drag it out of you word by word?”

Abruptly Varric sighed the cursed under his breath. “I must admit I’m getting a kick out of the idea of tormenting you for whatever it was you did to her. But I find I haven’t the stomach for it. Impressive poker face and all, I can see that you’re already doing an excellent job of tormenting yourself.”

Fenris shot up and started pacing in front of the fireplace.

“Don’t stop now,” he growled. “Twist the knife again. _Tell me about Hawke_. ”

“What do you want me to tell you, you shit-for-brains bastard?” Varric finally snapped. “That she cried so much her voice is ruined? That she broke her vocal cords? That she must have spend these past three days screaming and wailing? For fuck’s sake, what in the blazing Void did you do to her??”

Fenris forced himself to breathe past the pain he wouldn’t reveal. “Can you tell her I am sorry?”

“Too little, too late.”

“Vasta fass,” he said, closing his eyes for a minute. “You are really enjoying this, aren’t you?

“No. I’m telling you that whatever you did, an apology is too small a bandage to put on a wound like hers.”

Ice settled in Fenris’ stomach. “You said she was all right.”

Varric shrugged. “Physically. But that woman in that bed was not Hawke. _Hawke is gone_. I don’t know what in the blazes you did to her, what you said, and I am beginning to suspect I don’t want to know because I might have to kill you then, but you _destroyed_ her.”

Fenris turned his back to the dwarf, every word going through him like a red-hot knife, shredding his insides. He had an urge to put his hands over his ears like a child, to stop himself from hearing the words, but he resisted, welcoming the pain, embracing it, feeling he deserved it to the bottom of his soul.

Varric crossed his fingers under his chin, looking at the elf with the most sombre expression he had seen on the normally jovial dwarf’s face.

“Tell me what you did, Fenris. You may not care for her, but there are people that love her.” Varric’s eyes were suddenly pleading. “Help us help her.”

Fenris drew a deep breath and let it out with a soft sigh. Then feeling utterly disgusted at himself, he told Varric everything.

* * *

Anders heard what Varric told them all with a fake calm demeanour. He got up just as calmly and said he had to go back to his clinic. Then he left.

Varric looked at Isabela and Aveline.

“Did that fool you?” he asked.

Both women nodded no.

“So, who is going to stop him from setting the elf on fire?” Varric demanded. “I kind of hate Broody too right now, but the idea of a crispy elf...eww.”

Aveline shrugged. “He had it coming.”

“I’m more in the mood to go help him than stop him,” Isabela said.

Varric sighed.

_Nug shit._

* * *

Fenris was through his second bottle of wine when he heard the door slam open behind him. His senses dulled by drink, his heart still aching and his head spinning he failed to react; the split second moment when he was left staring in surprise was enough for Anders to deliver a crippling left hook to his jaw. His head snapped back and he felt himself fly through the air to slam against the table with a thundering crash. Splinters stabbed into his bare arms.

Before he had time to shake his throbbing head and disentangle himself from the ruin of the table, Anders was on top of him, straddling him and delivering one withering blow after the other as if his face was a punching bag he was practising on. He heard the sickening crunch of his own nose breaking and blood filled his mouth and throat; he was still too shocked to move. Somewhere inside, he also felt he deserved it and that thought was even more painful than the blows landing on his face.

Finally, his self preservation instinct kicked in and he raised his hand to block one of the punches, catching Anders’ bloodied fist in his.

“Enough,” he mumbled, and pushed his hips upwards, making the mage tumble backwards and off him.

He rose on one elbow, spitting blood and feeling his already swelling face to gauge the damage. He should be angry; deep inside he was shocked at himself for not feeling anger and resentment.

But the truth was, he deserved it.

Anders sat there, panting, his eyes darkened with anger that was slowly ebbing away. He suckled one of his brushed fists, the knuckles scrapped raw, and shot a look at the elf, that had his head bowed down, trying to stem the blood flow from his broken nose.

The healer in Anders warred with the furiously angry protective male; the healer won. He approached the elf, that flinched back, and glowered at the mage.

“Let me see that...” Anders said, and swiftly reset the broken bone of the previously elegant nose, secretly rejoicing at the pained growl that escaped the elf. He then released a swift wave of magic that healed the bruises and the split lip.

“How could you have been so...so cruel to her?” Anders asked, his voice sad and Fenris raised surprised eyes to his face, before shame made him look away.

Anders was near tears.

Shock and shame filled him. He had always looked on the mage like a monster; an abomination. He considered him dangerous and volatile, a massacre waiting to happen once he would lose the tenuous control on the spirit inside him. He had purposefully ignored the good job he did as a healer and how fiercely he defended his companions..

Yet, he himself was the monster. He had treated Hawke like dirt, insulted her and hurt her. She had trusted him with her body and even her heart and what had he done? What had he done other than teach her that no man was worthy of her trust? How was he different from the men that had violated her when she was just a girl? They had destroyed her body; he had destroyed her soul. The realisation that the mage was a better man that he had always considered himself to be was a stunning blow to his soul, adding mortification to the mix of shame and pain he had already been feeling.

“I...I told you that day,” he mumbled. “I have no tenderness inside me. I don’t know how to be kind.”

“I should have believed you,” Anders rose to his feet. “I am as much to blame as you are. But the idea that...Andraste’s flaming butt, Fenris, how could you have though she would just hop from one bed to another? This is Hawke we are talking about!”

Fenris just looked away, the knife slashing his insides back to torment him. He had no words, he knew not what to say. Now that he had come to his senses he realised what a fool, what a blighted, blinded idiot he had been that night. He had allowed his lack of trust to cast Hawke in the most condemning light. He had dismissed her loving words believing to the bottom of his soul that she couldn’t have meant it when she had said she loved him; what was there to love? His own feelings of inadequacy had made him question her motives, look for darker, sinister reasons for her actions.

But he had known Hawke. He had known her demons, her fears, her most intimate secrets. He had seen the way her eyes had grown wide with fear before he had soothed her that night, the way her body had trembled before she had surrendered to him like a virgin sacrifice.

He also remember her burning passion, the way her body had responded to his once she had gotten over her fear, the muted gasps and moans and her sweet, sweet mouth twisted in an agony of pleasure as she nearly screamed his name.

How could he have misjudged her so?

 _You never lo...cared for me. That is the reason. And you never will._ Her own voice rang in his head, adding salt to an already bleeding wound.

Anders was still waiting for an answer. He swallowed once, twice, and then hid behind a wall of anger that rose up to protect him from the pain.

“Leave,” he growled to the mage. “None of this is your business.”

Anders scoffed. “Just as I thought. The rapid dog knows nothing but to bite and snarl.”

“What do you want to hear?” Fenris roared, rage taking over and thankfully numbing him. His marking started glowing blue. “That I regret every word I told her? That I wish she had never met me? I do. I wish all of these things. I would even wish I were a slave back in Tevinter if it meant I had never gotten to hurt her. Are you satisfied?”

Anders went absolutely still, his eyes wide in shock.

“Maker, you fool!” he breathed. “You love her!”

Fenris’ anger bled and died. Just like his heart. He bowed his head, suddenly near tears, wishing that the damned mage would just go...he was tired. He just wanted to be alone. _Just, please, all of you leave me alone_ , he thought.

“I guess...I guess I do,” he admitted.

_Much good it has done her._

* * *

Despite what they all thought, Hawke was back on her feet the following day. Her throat still didn’t work, her voice was nothing but a raspy whisper, but she managed to make them understand she wanted them all out of her house, _now, damn it!_ , just fine.

She looked cold and aloof, nothing like the broken, disheartened woman that had stumbled and staggered through the door the previous day. There was a hard, determined glint in her eyes; a look that said _I will never be this weak again_.

Once all her companions had left, she moved to the desk in the corner and took a long-forgotten ring out of a small wooden box. Not even stopping to examine the wisdome of her own actions, spurred by nothing more than anger and hurt ego, she slipped it on her finger, and grabbed a parchment.

She only scribbled a few words on it, blotted the ink, and folded it. She quickly sealed the letter with some wax and her family signet ring, and summoned Bodahn. A few moments later, it was on its way.

Sebastian received it a few days later, in Starkhaven, where the assembly of nobles had just declared him Prince.

“I accept your proposal.” It wrote. “Come back soon.”

* * *

_That’s how The Champion of Kirkwall ended up engaged to the Prince of Starkhaven, Sebastian Vael. No, no, wait...I am running ahead of myself here. She hadn’t been named Champion yet, that was...what, just a few days later? A week or two, give or take?_

_The Sebastian that came back for her wasn’t the man I had affectionately called Chantry Boy. Seb had been kind and patient, devoted to the Chantry, a devout Andastrian. Every one of his actions, every one of his decisions had been judged and weighed in the light of the Maker’s wishes; Sebastian Vael, now, was a Prince. An I-am-ruthless-because-I-have to, scheming, shrewd ruler. He was haughty and arrogant and determined he was getting what he wanted, whatever way he had to._

_And what he wanted was Hawke._

_Hawke who was, try as she might to hide it, vulnerable and hurt and aching for someone to love her._

_Easy pickings._

_There was just one little thing standing in the Prince’s way:_

_Ah, I see you got it, my faithful readers, at first try too._

_Fenris._

 


	23. Chapter 23

Sebastian strolled through the door of Hawke’s library as if he owned the place, walking in after Bodahn had answered his impertinent knock. He took one look at Hawke, slumbering on the couch and a slightly predatory smile crossed his lips.

Bodahn rushed in after him, trying in vain to stop him.

“Messere, I beg your pardon, my lady Hawke has not been feeling very well...” the distraught dwarf begged in a low voice.

One regal, dismissive gesture from the Prince shut him up, just as Hawke began stirring.

She raised herself up on one elbow and looked at Sebastian, resplendent in a regal, royal attire, all dark blue silk and golden embroidery.

“Marian,” he drawled, his Starkhaven brogue made even more pronounced in the weeks he had been away.

She quickly sat up, righting her clothes, and tried to offer him a smile, but it was a pitiful effort to say the least. Now that he was standing here before her, her decision seemed rushed and foolish to her, a product of a broken heart and a raging temper, a desire to take revenge. She looked away, suddenly ashamed of herself. She was doing exactly what Fenris had accused her of, she was whoring herself to the Prince. And for what? Love? Sebastian didn’t love her and she didn’t love him. He desired her, that was certain, and her position as a noble fit perfectly with his political aspirations. But what about her? What would she gain from all this, other than the contempt of the man she still lov...NO. She did not love Fenris. He was dead to her. He had killed all the love in her heart. NO. She would not be weak again. She would never be that pathetic creature again, wailing for him in a dank cave in the wilderness, while a storm raged around her.

She turned her eyes to Sebastian again, a determined glint in them and she offered him another smile, more confident and assured this time, one that could marginally pass as a pleased expression. _At least I might get babies out of this...this charade,_ she thought, and her heart gave a flutter. They would not be the half-elven babies with the huge green eyes she had been dreaming about, but they would be hers. A new family of her own, someone to love unconditionally. The one thing she had ever wanted, her one, deepest, most well guarded dream. She had longed to be a mother ever since her father had told her, with tears in his eyes, to drink that potion so there wouldn’t be more...repercussions from her ordeal and she had to explain that none of her rapists had...

Just like Fenris hadn’t.

The rip in her heart got a bit larger at that thought, and she resolutely pushed it away. He was just a cruel, heartless man, who had taken pleasure in treating her like filth. How stupid was it of her to sit here, in front of the man she had agreed to marry, and ache because another man had refused her the chance to carry his child?

Very, very stupid. Profoundly idiotic. _Hush_ , she told the little voice mourning bitterly inside her. _Enough with you_.

She turned her attention to Sebastian, who was eyeing her with both a smug smile and a slightly guarded expression, once more. She raised her hand to him and with a relieved, bright smile, he stepped closer to her and taking her hand in both of his, he raised it to his lips.

But who was the man standing in front of her? He looked nothing like the Sebastian she used to know; gone were the tender, caring smile, the pious serenity his unshakable faith had previously radiated from his face. This was not that Sebastian; this was a stranger.

“Have you forgiven me?” Sebastian asked, his breath still caressing her skin and she had to concentrate to understand what he was talking about...oh, the bet. She had almost forgotten about it, in the anguish of the last few days. She nearly laughed at herself with how broken she had felt after she had found out...Hmph. It was ridiculous...at that time she had though nothing could have hurt more than that collective betrayal. How wrong she had been. Life had a way of teaching her there was always something worse than the pain she was currently feeling.

“Yes,” she croaked, her voice still a barely heard whisper.

“What happened to your voice?” Sebastian cupped her face with his hand. “Are you sick?” he waited for no answer before going on. “Don’t worry sweetling, now I’m back, and I will take good care of you.”

And with that, he laid a kiss on her cheek and went to look for Bodahn, to arrange for his things to be carried to the guest room.

Hawke stayed there, staring at the door, wondering vaguely if that had been a promise or a threat.

* * *

Fenris clenched his fists against the urge to bang his head against the brick wall until his brains spilt on the ground. Standing there like a stalker, hidden in the shadows across her house for the past two days, he felt like the world’s biggest coward. A little breathless voice inside him had been urging him relentlessly to go apologise to her, _go before it’s too late, go, go, GO_. He had managed to ignore it and now it was leering scornfully at him.

_It is too late. Sebastian is back. Fool. Idiot. Moron. You lost your chance, slim as it was._

He shut his eyes against the sudden rush of tears. _Marian. My Marian, my love. Please, please forgive me_.

He bit down on his knuckles, to stop the anguished gasp that threatened to escape him. Her voice hadn’t stopped ringing in his ears. Not even the strongest drink had been able to shut it up.

_You never lo...cared for me._

It was like a red hot knife, continuously stabbing into his heart, shredding it to bloody ribbons.

_If I was raped again tomorrow, raped and sodomised like I was, I would hurt less in comparison to what you did to me._

Please, Maker, make it stop.

 _Get out of my sight, Fenris. Just ...go_.

His eyes stung. He angrily rubbed them, trying to convince himself it wasn’t moisture that he wiped away. How could he have misjudged her so? How could he have said those words to her? He’d pushed her into the Prince’s arms. It was his fitting punishment, but Maker, did it have to hurt so much?

He swallowed hard as he watched the porters carry trucks full of Sebastian’s belongings through the door.

 _Marian_...he whispered one last time. _I only wish he can at least make you happy_. _Ma dulcis, amata, you deserve someone better than this...this thing they have made me into, something better than my bitterness and hate and mistrust_.

With one last look towards her house, he returned to his mansion to pack his meagre belongings and make preparations to leave the City of Chains.

* * *

Sebastian closed the door quietly behind him, his handsome face troubled. Something was amiss here. He had thought she had been sick at first, but it was obvious something else was the matter; her servants treated her like spun glass, and she had stayed holed up in her room nearly all day, only coming out to have dinner with him. He hadn’t seen that morose, dejected look on her face ever since her mother had died, and that had been only for a few days.

Something was going on. She’d had this weary, mistrustful look on her face whenever he had tried to approach her, like a stray animal that had been kicked to many times to trust humans so easily. When he had asked her of news of her companions she had flinched, especially when he had made a teasing remark about the way he had last seen her, naked in the elf’s arms.

Obviously, something had happened between them; Sebastian was neither naïve nor ignorant. He had been able to see the strong connection between them, the passion, the attraction -he’d been insanely jealous of it.

What had the elf done to her, to push her into his arms and reduce her to this silent, broken husk?

He started walking towards the Hanged Man with strong, determined strides.

One way or another, he was going to find out.

* * *

_I told him everything. I am sorry I did, in retrospect, but at that time I was too pissed with the elf to control my tongue. Yeah, yeah, I know... Stupid of me, but there you have it....My mother, Stone preserve her, always used to say that big mouth of mine was going to be my downfall._

_Sebastian had listened with a frown on his face, not making a single comment. He’d had a tankard of ale in his hand, and I doubt he had drunk any of it. At the end, he’d gotten up and left, still not having said a single word, and for a moment there I was worried we would find the elf with an arrow between his eyes the following day; but no. Fenris was alive the next morning, when the letter from the Viscount arrived, asking for Hawke’s help. I know, because I personally stopped by his mansion and warned him the situation with the Qunari was about to turn nasty...he was invaluable when dealing with the horned bastards, after all._

_When I returned home that afternoon, Sebastian’s tankard was still sitting on the table. That’s when I noticed the thing was bended so badly it would never be used again; and those where strong, dwarven-made tankards, mind you, not some cheep tin cups. I attempted to straighten it but it was impossible, no matter how hard I tried._

_He must have been squeezing that thing with all his strength._

_Or rage._

_Come on, boys and girls, repeat after me..._

_Nugshit!_


	24. Chapter 24

Sebastian walked into her study the same way he had the first time he was there, with a regal air and the assurance of being where he was supposed to be. Hawke glimpsed at the ring on her finger for just a second; maybe he had been given reason to, she conceded, some- but hardly all- of her annoyance fading.

“Marian, love, how are you today?” he asked, leaning down to kiss her, but she averted her face and the kiss just grazed her cheek.

“Annoyed, Sebastian,” she shot him an irritated look. “Did you really ask my servants to clear out my mother’s room?”

Sebastian folded his arms on his chest, his head cocking to the side to scrutinize her dark expression.

“I told them to obtain your permission first. I need a room where I can work, love,” he tried reason to placate her, “ you know that. I have a city to run.”

“I gave you a guest room,” she persisted. “There are three more empty rooms. Why my mother’s?”

“They are at the back of the house, small and obscure,” he drawled in his heavily accented voice. “Be reasonable, sweetling. I _am_ a Prince. There are some trappings of authority that need to be observed.”

She looked at his for a few thoughtful minutes. Who was this man? The Sebastian she knew never used to care about appearances. He used to care about what was right.

“You can have the library, if you wish,” she said. “But leave my mother’s room alone.”

Sebastian thought about pushing the matter more, but the cold, detached look on her face told him not to. Truth be told, the only reason he had wanted the room was that it was just across the hall form hers, not at the back like the guest room he had been sleeping in. At that thought, his irritation grew, and he had to struggle not to show it. He had been here for a week, and he was still sleeping in the guest room. Every attempt he had made to come closer to her, every seduction technique had failed. He had tried everything, romantic candlelit dinners, expensive baubles and presents, flowers, moonlit walks, everything he could think of. She had indulged him, but with a coldly polite smile, and a disinterest expression.

Was he, Prince Sebastian Vael of the Starkahaven Vaels, not better that a lowly ex-slave elf? She had given herself to that embittered, broody elf, and she dared resist him, a Prince? Was he not the one who had won her kiss just a few weeks ago? Was he not the one she had gazed at with stars in her eyes, with lips swollen by his kiss? Was he not her freaking fiancé? He had every right to her attentions, but she kept staring into the void, a sad expression on her face, obviously thinking of that accursed elf of hers.

He had hoped the attraction that had been there among them before she had learnt of that damned bet could have survived, but apparently it hadn’t. So, Sebastian decided to adjust and adapt. It was what a good politician should do in the face of such stubborn opposition.

“I think is time you and I had a little talk, Marian,” he said and took the seat right across from her.

She raised startled eyes to his. “What about?”

“What each of us expects out of this marriage, for starters. What you expect of me, and what I expect of you. What is acceptable and what is not. About that elf of yours,” he spat and she visibly tensed and averted her eyes.

“He is not ‘that elf of mine’. There is nothing going on between us.”

“Don’t presume to think I don’t know perfectly well what happened, Hawke,” Sebastian shot her an irritated look. “I know he laid with you and then rejected you.” He saw her brow crease with a frown and her lips thin and tighten and his anger swelled. “I know he treated you like something bought for the night. How do you think this makes me feel?”

She visibly flinched at that, and for just a tiny second Sebastian was sorry for his words, and wanted nothing but to go to her, wrap  his arms around  her and kiss that hurt expression from her face. But then he  composed himself. The whole purpose of this conversation was for him to establish he would not tolerate her attention to be divided between him and the elf. She would either be his, body and soul, or nobody’s at all.

Maker help him, he would not have a wife that had another man on her mind. And since Hawke was the only woman he had ever wanted for a wife, he would find a way to drive him out.

Hawke got up and walked to the fireplace, her arms wrapped tightly around her as if she was suddenly cold.  She felt cold, Maker knew how much, and numb. But it was good, that was good, because it kept the pain away. Being practical and business-like; she preferred that to declarations of love and romantic gestures.

“State your terms, Sebastian,” she coldly said, without turning to look at him. “What is it _you_ want out of this wedding?”

He did not hesitate. “Heirs. Devotion. Your oath that you will never humiliate me. And a promise, Hawke. A promise you will at least _try_ to let me into your heart.”

She looked at him coolly, at the haughtiness and the self-assurance he excluded. His words may have been pleading but his whole posture was cocky, as if he thought it was a matter of time before she was putty in his hands. She nearly scoffed at that. He could have her body, if he wanted it, Maker knew why. But her heart...her heart was no more. It had been broken way beyond repair, it wasn’t fit to be given to anyone.

“You get so pitifully little out of our little...arrangement, then, Sebastian.”

“Please don’t call it that!” he seemed a little hurt at her words. “You used to like me once, Hawke, you even desired me at some point. We can build on that. When the bairns arrive, you will learn to love me.”

“Bairns? Oh...” a dreamy smile lit up her face for an instance. “Babies. Yes, I want babies. But...” her face fell, “I’m not sure I can...”

“You could with Fenris. You can with me.”

She lowered her eyes to the floor and shivered. She remembered her voice, panic rising but hidden behind humour, asking _was it that bad?_ and his replying _no, it was...fine_.

“Like I said,” she murmured, in a lost little voice, “you get pitifully little out of this, Sebastian. I am...cold. Frigid. Fenris didn't enjoy me, and that’s probably why he left. I am too damaged to give any man...Give me time.”

“Nonsense,” Sebastian dismissed her, knowing full well that he had to stake his claim now, while she was feeling vulnerable and weak, or risk losing her later. “I will sleep in your bed tonight. I have given you enough time already.”

He felt a small pang of guild at the wide-eyed, terrified look she gave him before she managed to compose herself. He quickly approached her and wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly, although she was cold and unresponsive in his arms. She would warm up to him, he would make her want him again. He smiled down to her before leaning in for a kiss he shamelessly demanded from her limp mouth. “I will show you how good it can be...don’t worry,” his voice dropped into a husky murmur.

Eyes filled with pain and fear met his and he cursed at the elf under his breath. He had managed to break her even more...Now he had to do the hard work of putting her back together.

And he knew just the way, both to tie her to him and make her his forever and to help her get some of her lost sparkle back. Hawke had revealed it herself, when the mention of babies had lit up her face. She wanted children, his children.

He would put a baby in her belly, then, tonight if it was possible.

A sudden thought crossed his mind then and he looked down at her with a raised eyebrow.

“Have you bled since he’s had you?” he asked and watched first her cheeks flame up and then indignation flood her eyes. She pushed out of his arms and shot him an insulted look.

“How dare you ask something like that?”

“I have every right to,” Sebastian smiled coldly, just the thought infuriating him. “I will not raise his bastard as the next ruler of Starkhaven...have you bled?”

Hawke looked at him with shame and disappointment warring inside her. Another man to treat her like a whore, a man whose ring she wore on her finger; did that make it worse or better? Did he really have the right to the embarrassing details of that night?

She blushed as she remembered, the recollection of her wanton surrender into Fenris’ hands something at that time she thought she would treasure for ever; now the images only made her cringe. She had found unimaginable pleasure in his arms. He apparently hadn’t. He had come, but what of it? According to Isabela, that was not a particular feat.

She mumbled an explanation to Sebastian, her face flaming up as she had to tell him the elf had come on her, not in her, pulling away as if she had been a common whore. He seemed content with her answer, his lips again curling into a smile.

 _Why shouldn’t he?_ she thought with a sudden wave of dislike filling her for the first time, an acute sense of  aversion towards a man she had previously liked and respected. _Why shouldn’t he? His brood mare is safe. Not a virgin, but not knocked up either. What a relief._

Maker help her, was this the man she would have sharing her bed tonight?

* * *

Fenris was drunk. No, he was not drunk. He was sloshed. And the funny thing was that being drunk usually meant numbness, a welcome reprieve from all that ate away at his soul, the hate, the memories, the bitterness. Not this time, however, nor any of the times this past week when he had spent the night drinking enough to drown a horse.

But not her voice. Not her pain. Not the memory of what he had done. Not the sound of his own voice as he had ravaged her. Nothing could drown that.

Standing here in the shadows across her street, as he did every night since she had returned, he found himself whispering her name like a chant again. _Marian, Marian. My Marian. My little Hawke_. And again, and all over again, an endless repetition of the sound of her name slipping through his parched throat, as if he was summoning her.

He didn't know why he was here. He had no idea how he had come here, as if his legs had taken it upon themselves to carry him there night after night, against his will. He had woken up in the alley across the street from her house once, with a guardsman’s boot jarring him awake none too gently. Another time he found himself slumped against the wall outside his own mansion; Donnic’s shift that night, patrolling Hightown. He was lucky the gangs in Hightown had long been taken care of by their own company of misfits; he was so inebriated he doubted he would be able to remember how to grasp his sword, much less swing it.

So here he was, one more night, waiting every day for Varric’s news that his transport out of Kirkwall had been arranged; he had the faint impression the dwarf had been stalling. Maker, he would just get up and start walking into a random direction if it took any more to book passage. He could take this no longer. He just had to get out, go someplace where there was no lit window for him to stand under and chant her name like a prayer. Maybe the pain would lessen then.

He raised his head, the movement making his inside roll. He felt faint. He was going to either throw up or pass out any moment now. There was a small part of his brain that had remained lucid despite all the wine he had drunk and it took stock of his condition now, then scoffed and warned him he was about to pass out. And then told him how pathetic he was.

A shadow crossed in front of the lit window of her room, and he squinted, trying to catch a glimpse of her, even of her shadow. He hadn’t seen her for a week. More than a week. Maker, he missed her like he would miss a limb!

The shadow was too tall to be her.

Maker, the shadow was too tall to be her.

 He froze and then he gasped for air, his lungs suddenly constricting. Just then, the window opened, and he saw Sebastian lean over the ledge, reach down and cut one of the buds that grew in the rose bush that had climbed up to her window, entangling with the ivy. He saw a smile on the Prince’s face as he caressed the flower’s petals, one of anticipation.

Just then their eyes met, and Sebastian gave a small startled gasp, before his eyes hardened. Fenris clenched his fists, and his markings ignited against his will.

The two men stood watching each other, menace and anger excluding from both of them. Fenris was just about ready to leap into the ivy and climb up to bash his head in, consumed by an anger and a feeling of possessiveness so feral, so wild, that his whole body vibrated with it. He clenched and unclenched his fists, his marking glowing eerily blue, his teeth grinding. Any sane man would step down from the air of menace he excluded.

But Sebastian just smiled, a crooked, arrogant smirk. One eyebrow rose in derision. He took a quick look into the room, and then turned back to the elf. Working slowly, deliberately, he unlaced the collar of his tunic, holding the elf’s eyes with his all the time, as if daring him. He pulled the fabric over his head, leaving himself half-naked in the dimly lit room and then brought the flower to his nose and took a deep breath, before rubbing the petals against his lips, all the while holding his opponents gaze, sending him a clear and distinct message.

 _She is mine. I will enjoy her tonight. I will have her, touch her, kiss her, pet her, take her. She is mine_.

As Sebastian turned away, closing the window behind him with another arrogant smirk, Fenris turned around and vomited until his insides nearly bled.

* * *

Hours later, Hawke lay on her back, unmoving, unresponding, her body and soul frozen with both shock and humiliation.

Sebastian’s arm was resting heavily across her belly, his seed was drying between her legs, his body was still glistening with sweat. He had taken her again and again, his body demanding, although at no point could she call him rough, or his lovemaking rushed. He had been tender, patient, talented, even managing to arouse her and make her body respond.

The memory of his arrogant, self-satisfied smile as he had led her to completion was now like a humiliating blow on her soul. She had been unable to resist him, his experienced, well planned seduction, the way he played her body like a lute. She had wanted to just lay there and _get it over with_ ; he had not allowed it. He had praised her, cajoled her, whispered heated, seductive words in her ear until she had shivered against her will and her body had heated up.

Still, still... she couldn’t help herself from closing her eyes at some point and wishing, pretending, hoping, that it was another pair of rough calloused hands stroking her body, that it was another coarse, throaty baritone whispering in her ear; that had been the most humiliating part of the whole experience, that she still wanted him, that she still longed for Fenris after all he had said and done. It was proof of how weak and pathetic she was, something she had sworn she would never be again.

But now, in the darkness of the room, with Sebastian snoring slightly next to her, his body warm next her and the evidence of their lovemaking leaving a wet spot on the sheets underneath her, she gave in , and allowed her eyes to well up with hopeless, distressed tears.

She drew in a deep shuddering breath.

 _Fenris_ , she breathed his name into her pillow, biting it to stifle a sob that was trying to evade her. _Why couldn’t you have loved me, even a little?_

* * *

_The whole mess with the Qunari started the very next day, with Seamus’ disappearance. The Viscount pleaded with her to help and her soft heart had been unable to resist._

_But the whole thing ended with another pointless, cruel loss, and I watched her eyes mist over with pity as the withered, broken old man requested time alone, cradling his only son’s lifeless body in his arms._

_We didn't know then. It was too soon to know, but her body was already cradling new life inside her. The Prince had done it. Maybe that new life, those two new lives as it turned out, had already started making her more emotional, more understanding of a parent’s grief, but I had never seen Hawke shed a tear over a stranger’s plight before. She tried to hide it, of course, but I saw it._

_What I also saw was the relaxed, cocky arrogance in the way the Prince carried himself, his radiant smile. It wasn’t difficult to put one and one together and come out with two...or, in that case, four._

_I also saw a hidden tension in the set of her shoulders, in the way her smile never reached her eyes. I thought it was because of the Qunari mess and I paid no attention._

_Fuck, sometimes I am awesome and I notice the smallest detail._

_Sometimes, I am as dense as dried up bronto shit._

_That was one of them._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And before you all start throwing bricks at me and accusing me of inconsistency, check back on chapter 11. Varric says “Her beautiful daughters come and see me every other day, and their son, a spitting image of Fenris, breaks my heart every time I see him”   
> Her daughters. Their son.  
> You didn’t catch that, did you? Mawhahaha.


	25. Chapter 25

Hawke scrunched up the little note in her fist and threw it to the side, a hard glint in her eyes. Isabela had fled with the tome, and now she had to be the one to tell the Arishok. She looked to Varric who had an inquisitive look on his face and shrugged, trying to pretend this new betrayal didn’t hurt.

 _It doesn’t hurt_ , she told herself. _Isabela was nothing to you, just one more person to use you and throw you away. Get over it_.

But it did hurt. As she turned away from the dinky warehouse door, she allowed herself to think back, to remember how many times Isabela had been there for her, and tried to find clues that could have shown her it was all an act, a way for the pirate to get her way, a means to a way, her way. She had opened to her so many times, pouring her soul out, her insecurities, drawing strength from a relationship she had thought to be genuine. Bitterness rose up to choke her, thick and acrid, like bile at the back of her throat.

 Betrayal, after betrayal, after betrayal.

She sighed and squared her drooping shoulders. Life kept trying to teach her no to trust anyone, and she kept ignoring it. But no more. The small chinks and cracks on the wall around her heart strengthened with an almost audible ‘clink’ and her eyes hardened. Isabela, comforting her that night after the bet, telling her she wasn’t soiled, or unworthy, telling her she deserved to be loved. And all this time she had been lying.

Screw this. She didn’t need her. She didn’t need friends. She didn’t need girly talks and silly outings to buy hats and shoes. She was a warrior, a survivor, a sword for hire, a troublemaker and a trouble- solver. She didn’t need girl talks in the middle of the night, she didn’t need a sister. She had had a sister once; she shouldn’t have allowed Isabela to step in and take her sweet Bethany’s place in her heart.

She wouldn’t make that mistake again.

“Screw this,” she whispered, her resolve strengthening. “Screw this, screw her and the horse she rode in on. I don’t need this.”

She turned to her remaining companions, Aveline, clearly fidgeting in place, eager to get going, Varric, his caramel coloured eyes shrewdly observing her, Anders, a concerned frown on his handsome face. I can’t trust any of them, she thought, and the thought was like a dagger through the heart; but she pushed the pain away and rose over it, years of practice making it easy, effortless. She wouldn’t break in front of them again; once was enough and her weakness would forever mortify her with shame and self-loathing.

“Come,” she spat. “We have a Qunari mess to take care of.”

Varric exchanged a look with Anders and then hurried after her, as she made her way to the compound in the Docks.

“Hawke...” the dwarf hesitantly tried to breach the subject. “Isabela may be a thief and a lying whore, but she loves you like a sister. She will be back with the tome. I’m sure of it.”

Hawke gave a short, mirthless little laugh.

“You all love me like a sister...until you have no more need of me.”

Anders shook his head vehemently. “That is not true, Hawke.”

She turned and gave him a sarcastic smile, a shadow of her previous self-amused, acerbic humour in the upturned corners of her mouth.

But she said nothing.

* * *

Fenris woke from his drunken slumber from a loud screaming wail; disoriented, his head pounding like a dwarven forge, he picked himself up and made his way to the window. The smell of smoke hit him before he reached it, and his hackles rose in alarm. It seemed that the whole city was burning, smoke gathering on the slowly darkening horizon, turning late afternoon into evening.

His eyes widened with the sight that greeted him; fires were burning in the streets, blood was splattered on the pristine walls of the well-kept Hightown mansions. A Qunari soldier- a member or the Karashok- went by, dragging a screaming noble woman behind him; her silk dress was torn and dirtied and blood was splattered on her hair and face. Fenris quickly drew back from the window and his mind started racing; obviously, the city was under Qunari attack.

It was to be expected, a little voice in his mind spoke. The Arishok had been patient enough; it was bound to happen. Kirkwall was an abomination in the eyes of the Qun, a festering pustule of selfishness, disorder and chaos. The citizens of this city had never seen Qunari in action and they had no defences against it. He grimly calculated the odds and effortlessly arrived at the only safe conclusion. Kirkwall was doomed. The Qunari would follow their usual tactic: gather up the nobles and officials and offer them a choice: submit or die. Once the ruling class was subjugated, the city would be theirs.

Sure enough, the templars and the city guard would do their best, but they had never witnessed the full might of the well-oiled fighting machine that the Qunari were. He had fought against them, while still a slave to Danarius, and he knew how affective, how deadly even the lowest among their ranks were. There was no one that could stand up to them, not here in Kirkwall, at least, except for...

_Except for Hawke._

His heart froze. Hawke. She would get involved in this, it was as certain as daylight. She would get into the thick of it. Even if she didn't fight, she was a noble, a well known one. Maker’s blood, her fiancé was the Prince of Starkhaven. Her mansion would have been among the first to be raided. Even if she didn't fight, which was highly improbable, she would be in danger- perhaps she was already in danger. Perhaps she was fighting at that very instance.

Without him.

Panic rose and he made a conscious effort to suppress it. Every protective instinct in him cried out for him to run to her side, to offer her his sword, his expert knowledge of everything that had to do with this extremely dangerous enemy she was up against; but would she want him by her side? Would she accept his assistance?

She would probably run him through at sight.

Still, he couldn’t just stand here; he had to rush to her side.

He picked up his sword, and running downstairs, barely pausing to put on his spiked gauntlets, he prayed with all that he was that he would find her safe. Even if she didn't spare him a single look, even if she sent him away, even if he found himself on the sharp end of her sword, he had to go to her. He had to protect her. There was nobody else he trusted enough to do so.

He run through the streets, his instinct leading him unerringly to the distant sound of battle; where there was the sharp hiss and clang of warring blades, he knew she would be as well.

 _Be safe, be safe, be safe_ , a frantic little voice chanted in his brain. _Wait for me. Be safe until I can get to you. Hawke, my Marian, wait for me._

* * *

“Sebastian, for the last time,” Hawke hissed as the last of the Qunari squad fell to the ground, “you must go! It is not safe for you here!”

Sebastian lowered his bow and wiped the blood that had run down his face from a small nick on his forehead. He then turned and frowned.

“No.”

Hawke bristled. “What do you mean, 'no'?” she yelled. “I am still the leader of this group, and I say you have to go. Your presence endangers all of us!”

Sebastian pretended to check the string on his bow, but everyone could see his shoulders tense and his back straighten up.

“No. I will not leave,” he hissed, his voice ringing with authority. “I am the Prince of Starkhaven, I will not cower and hide like a dog.”

Hawke’s mabari gave a protesting whine at Varric’s side, and he patted the huge beast’s head. “He didn't mean you,” he whispered and the dog woofed and wagged its stubby tail.

 “I have no time for a pissing match, Sebastian!” Hawke growled. “When in my band, you take orders from me, and I say you go, join the nobles Aveline is evacuating out of the city. Or so help me.”

Sebastian’s eyes narrowed and he took a threatening step in her direction, his fists tightening. “I take orders from no one, Hawke,” his voice, eerily cold and low, but with the steel of arrogance and authority ringing as clearly as his Starkhaven burr. “You are to be my wife, and I say I stay. Learn your place.”

Hawke flinched as she had been hit, and Varric slapped a hand on his face; _oh, you fool_ , he thought. _I hoped your foot is clean, this will taste really bad otherwise._

“What did you say?” Hawke rasped, her eyes shooting lightning. “MY PLACE? Pray tell, Sebastian, what _is_ my place?”

“We have no time for this!” Anders cut in, physically coming between them, looking from one to the other. “The whole city is burning up, people are dying!”

“Stay out of it, mage,” Sebastian hissed threateningly. “This does not concern you.”

Hawke clenched her fists and growled. She wanted to scream, she wanted to bash his head in for being that stubborn. At first she had been relieved to find him safe, and moved when he had declared he would stay at her side no matter what. But she had been wrong, once again. This was no show of loyalty, no desire on his side to protect her. It was just his damned pride, and his arrogance and his need to assert his authority over her. Well, if he thought she would bend her head and meekly agree to whatever he said, he had another thing coming. A sudden vision of herself in the years to come flashed before her eyes, surrounded by nobles, not able to speak her mind, pretending to be the meek, sweet, obedient little wife Sebastian wanted.

Think again, buster.

She made a decision at that split moment; this engagement had been a mistake. Sebastian had become a man she didn't know, a stranger. All the elements in his character she had once found attractive were gone, to be replaced by haughtiness and pride; his tenderness, his calm serenity, even his piety. Gone. This man she had connected her future to, this man standing in front of her demanding her submissiveness was alien to her. As soon as this mess with the Qunari was over, she would return his ring to him, and break up the engagement.

Now that she had made her decision, keeping her temper in check was easier, although she still felt herself boil with anger at his arrogant posture and his challenging words. She made a mental note to teach him what the place for her in particular and for all women in general really was. She huffed and looked away, getting more annoyed at the triumphant smirk that curved his lips. However, it was another thing to be infuriated with a partner, your husband or fiancé, and another with a companion. Making a herculean effort, she kept her voice calm, and reasonable. “The Qunari are taking the nobles as hostages. If you are captured, not only Kirkwall, but Starkhaven as well will fall into their hands. Sebastian, please, see reason. You have to go.”

The tall prince folded his hands in front of his chest, his smile fading. “I will not,” he insisted, clearly determined to challenge her authority.

“Then you are a fool,” a low baritone rang out behind them.

Varric’s hand halted as he was petting the mabari and he turned around, not believing his ears. _Fenris._

_Oh, shit._

Hawke turned as if in slow motion, her eyes wide, her whole body tensed like a coil suddenly pressed to the maximum of its ability.

“Fenris,” she whispered and for one brief instance, relief and joy flooded her; then memory crashed down on her and her eyes hardened and glittered like jewels. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Quiet conviction rang in his voice, but Varric, standing closer to him than the rest, noticed how he kept his eyes to the ground, his face shadowed by his hair, his expression hidden. It was as if he expected to be kicked in the teeth.

“The Qunari are invading,” he just said. “You need me. I am here.”

* * *

_She needed you long before that, you stupid elf. She need you and you left her, and broke her heart, and..._

_Ah, nug shit._

_Who am I kidding? I was glad to see the stupid son of a bitch. The anger and the heartache and Hawke’s sorrow were still real enough, and he had been the cause of them, but I was a realistic bastard and a damned selfish one; at that moment, with the crazy horned bastards descending on us, I just wanted to stay alive. And Fenris being there, with us, greatly increased our chances of survival._

_And Hawke, bless her heart, was a pragmatist too. She knew it as well as I did, that Fenris was invaluable in that fight. He knew it, I knew it, the damned Prince also knew it._

_And that is why, after her initial shock and anger had time to settle, she bid him follow her._

_That is how, against all odds, Anders, Fenris, Sebastian and yours truly found ourselves standing at the side, as Hawke stepped in front of that behemoth, the Arishok, after he had challenged her to a one-to-one duel to the death, and calmly said “I accept.”_

_But before that...oh, before that. Isabela had not shown up and the Arishok had held Hawke accountable for the pirate’s actions. He had then suggested the duel and before Hawke accepted, she had turned to us and looked us all in the eyes, as if gauzing our reactions. Sebastian had vehemently objected, saying something like “I forbid it,” or some other such nonsense. I had just looked in her eyes, and though I wanted to protest, I knew that there was no way out of it; that damned pragmatism we were talking about. Anders had been near tears, biting his lips frantically, his eyes- poor in love little fool- begging her not to accept._

_But Fenris...Fenris had just looked at her, his eyes meeting hers for the first time that night. I had never seen such sorrow and love in a man’s eyes at the same time, such heart-felt agony, such a depth of emotion. I swear his arm twitched a bit, as if he had wanted to grasp her hand, and she had almost taken a step towards him. At that moment, my eyes darting from one to another, I could have sworn, I was that certain, that they had forgotten everything, all the bitter words, all the pain, all the stupid things they had done and said. I have never seen such longing, such love shining through, such pain and regret._

_Even now, years later, remembering that one long, burning look sends my old cynical heart aflutter._

_The hopeless romantic lurking inside me just wanted to come out of the closet and scream at him to just grab her and kiss her, but the moment ended; she turned and walked towards the Arishok, proud, and standing tall, my brave, brave little Hawke, and that was it._

_I hadn’t been the only one to see that look pass between them, though. When I turned towards Sebastian, the blind rage on his face took my breath away and sent chills down my spine._

_Oh, make no mistake. That look spelt trouble, with a capital t._

_A whole shit-load of it._


	26. Chapter 26

The huge room had fallen eerily silent, every noble, even the Qunari, holding their breaths as the two opponents circled each other, anticipation thick enough in the air to taste. A noble behind where Hawke’s companions were standing whimpered and shot a prayer to the Maker as the swords clashed for the first time; Hawke looked so small, so helpless against the Qunari warlord, like a child playing at being a warrior.

Soon, though, the crowds desperate, agonized moans and frantic prayers had turned to murmurs of surprise, awe and appreciation. Hawke was deadly. She was a warrior without equal; her small but muscular frame hid strength nobody had expected and her skill was such that the giant Qunari was now sporting bleeding gashes along his torso and arms; not to mention a rather surprised expression.

It was rage that was fuelling her; rage at everything rotten that the fates had ever thrown her way. She had learned early on how to harness her anger, her pain, and use it to her advantage. Hawke was like a sword; the more the smith beat and scorched the metal, the stronger it became. Life had been a ruthless sword maker; the warrior the nobles were now watching in awe had been the result. In battle, Hawke was brutal, deadly, focused, disciplined. She stopped being broken the minute swords clanged; the blade in her hand, and the knowledge of the damage it could do, gave her back her control, gave her back her sense of strength and power.

She threw her head back and laughed, the sound chilling everyone on the room, and then taunted the hulk in front of her to attack.

Swords clashed, breaths panted, blood flowed. A swish of a sword found the Arishok clutching his side, a gash on her thigh, deep enough to almost cripple her, being the immediate retaliation. Blood for blood, gash for gash, one wound for the other, until, by sheer will alone, clutching her hand to her stomach, where the Qunari’s sword had run clean through her gut, Hawke found herself the only one standing.

She had regained consciousness long enough to be declared Champion of Kirkwall and then collapsed.

The last thing she saw was Sebastian and Anders running to her side, and Fenris turn his back and leave.

* * *

Fenris kept his eyes on her on every single instance of the battle, willing her feet to step just the right way to get out of the way, willing her sword to parry, to strike. Every single blow she took, he felt it on his soul, every strike she landed, he wanted to shout and cheer.

Only that he dared not take his eyes off her. He kept praying for her the whole time, repeating every prayer he knew, and then inventing some of his own. He seemed calm and collected all the time, but anyone close enough to catch a glimpse into his eyes would be startled by the agonized, intense concentration, the plea in his eyes. Varric laid a comforting hand on his arm at same point, only to make him start and lose eye contact; that had been the moment the Qunari’s sword had pierced through her gut and lifted her clear off the ground, her small form dangling on his sword, impaled on that monstrous blade, as if it had been Fenris’ gaze that had kept her safe until that moment.

It took both Varric and Anders to keep him from rushing in to her side. Finally, after what felt like hours, the huge warlord slumped to his knees and then delivering a blood chilling threat that they would one day return, finally fell back, and died. He made a move to follow Anders as he was rushing to her side, before a hand grasped his forearm.

“Leave,” he came face to face with an irate Sebastian, his blue eyes seething with hate, “you have done enough damage. She is mine, now.”

Before he had a chance to protest, to say anything, the Prince had rushed in to her side, and he was left there alone, staring at the eyes of the woman he loved as she bled on the floor, her gaze fixed on her future husband.

His heart breaking, realizing he had no job standing there, he turned round and left. Only Varric was left to witness the way her eyes had trailed after him, the way her eyes swam with pain.

Had he seen that look, that plea not to go before her eyes had closed, things might have turned out completely different.

* * *

Anders emerged from the room where Hawke had been carried to, Orsino accompanying him. The both looked tired and drained, supported by Aveline and her guards.

Anders slumped on a chair, and Orsino exchanged a look with Knight Commander Meredith.

“She will live,” the First Enchanter announced to the worried faces that were looking to him with bated breaths, and Meredith gave a curt nod in reply.

“It seems we have the First Enchanter’s healing skill to thank for the rescue of our Champion,” she said, totally ignoring Anders, as if he wasn’t even there. The Champion’s companions had made it quite clear the healer was under her protection and until she had a chance to gauge how much a threat to her power Hawke was going to be, she had no wish to challenge her. Giving a few curt orders, and a courteous but stiff bow to Sebastian, she gathered her templars and made a hasty exit, leaving only Hawke’s friends on the room.

 As soon as the door had closed behind her, Sebastian abandoned the easy, casual stance that he had adopted in front of the Knight Commander, and rounded on Anders, who was barely keeping his eyes open. A lyrium potion that Varric slipped him revived him for just a second, but he was too drained to stay upright and he fell back on the chair.

“Anders,” Sebastian shook him by the shoulder, “tell me. How is she? The truth.”

The healer’s amber eyes opened slowly and he shot the Prince an exhausted and frustrated look.

“They will be fine. I managed to save them all.”

Sebastian’s eyebrows furrowed over his eyes. “They? What do you mean all?”

Anders made a herculean effort to keep his eyes open and his anger and heartbreak buried deep inside him.

“Congratulations, Prince,” he sneered. “you get Hawke, an heir and a spare. She is pregnant. With twins.”

A shocked silence fell with an almost audible bang in the room. Aveline jumped up, and Varric gasped, then whistled.

“You sure work fast, Choir Boy,” he shot the Prince, still not sure how to deal with the news.

“Did you force her?” Aveline had reached for her sword hilt, her teeth clenched tight and distaste thick in her voice.

Sebastian smiled, a brilliant, smug grin. “No need to. She was putty in my hands.”

Merrill then spoke up, for once in her life finding the right words to express what everybody was feeling, despite her naiveté, or even because of it.

“I don’t know whether I should congratulate you or hit you,” she said. “I want to hit you, though. I don’t know why.”

Sebastian couldn’t care less.

* * *

“It will not be easy, my Lord,” a low voice whined. “It is a dangerous foe you ask me to apprehend.”

“You can do it, though, can you not?”

The rogue in the shadows smiled under his hood. “For the right price.”

“I will spare no expense. I want him gone.”

“What are to do with him, after we catch him?” the hooded figure asked. “Kill him?”

A sigh. “No, don’t kill him. I want the bastard to suffer. Carry him to my summer estate, do you know where it is?” At an affirmative nod from the rogue, he continued. “There is a dungeon there, and a mage that knows what to do to contain him. Take him there.”

“Aye, my Lord,” the rogue replied before bowing respectfully and disappearing in the shadows.

A door opened behind the tall human standing in the shadowed alley behind the Hanged Man.

“Hey, Prince,” Varric’s voice echoed. “You are missing the celebrations!”

Sebastian turned on his heel and entered the tavern again, a self-satisfied little smile curling his lips. Soon, you blasted elf, he thought, soon you will be out of my hair. Then she can be mine forever.

Varric gave him a strange, inquisitive look and he carefully blanked his expression and returned to the drinking and the singing at their table.

Later that night, he had planned another celebration of his own, at the Blooming Rose.

 He clinked his glass with Varric and while outwardly shouting “to the Champion!” along with everybody else, inside him he was cheering for reasons completely of his own.

* * *

_Hawke was pregnant. That was all I could think of for the longest time, even as we were drinking and cheering her name, long into the night. Hawke was going to be a mother. It should have been a happy thought, I knew how much she wanted a family of her own. I don’t know why, but it wasn’t. I had a strange, ominous feeling about the whole thing._

_Sebastian had been acting a bit odd, but I had figured it was the shock of impending fatherhood, and had paid no more attention._

_If I had, if I hadn’t brushed off his strange behaviour as normal, maybe I would have been able to stop what happened later that night. Who knows? I certainly realise that hoping and wishing don’t mean squat, but I wish I had been a bit more observant. I wish I had realised how much Sebastian had changed. I mean, I knew he had changed, but I hadn’t realised to what extent. I thought he had just become a cocky, arrogant bastard, I had no idea how ruthless he had become._

_Fenris disappeared. I thought he had just left the city, and though I was upset, I gave it no further thought. I mean, Hawke was engaged, she was pregnant, she was a Champion. She seemed, if not happy, at least content. Her life had seemed to be getting on track. Why upset her with news of the damned elf’s departure? She would hear of it on her own soon enough._

_That, I think, is the second time I failed her. Not her, exactly, no, not like I had with that bet, but her well-being. Her happiness. After all, I had seen that look between them; I should have realised Hawke was still in love with the elf, and that this thing with the Prince would never work. I think at some level I had, and that explained my whole uneasiness that night._

_But I chose not to pay head to it, I dismissed my worry as being silly and unneeded._

_The void take me. I knew better than that. I knew better than not to trust my own instincts. But I did so anyway._

_Aveline hadn’t come to the celebration. She had stayed by Hawke’s side; maybe I should have too. If I had heard her call out for Fenris like Aveline told me later, I may have rushed to get the stupid elf, and none of the huge pile of shit that happened afterwards would have happened._

_Ah, nug shit. If I could go back and fix it all, I would._

_But I can’t, and while I was playing deaf to the little voice telling me something was wrong, there was nobody there to stop the group of men that snuck into the elf’s mansion that night, and finding him drunk as a fish, knocked him unconscious and dragged him off into the night._

_The man responsible was sitting near me, drinking and singing with me till early in the morning and I didn't even know._

_I’ve said it a million times, and I will say it again._

_Nug shit._

 


	27. Chapter 27

Pain, pain and then more pain. Her whole world had become one huge, burning ball of searing, agonizing pain. It breathed and pulsed like a living thing, like a heartbeat completely separate from her own. She heard voices but her brain could not focus beyond the agony blazing along her nerve endings. Pain, and then more. it seemed like it would never end, and the few moments were it ebbed just to come back with a vengeance left her even more desperate than relieved.

Where the hell was Anders?

She felt a hand on her forehead, but the caress was all wrong; the feeling was all wrong. It didn’t bring comfort, just annoyance. Where was he? There was only one touch that could make the pain go away, and this wasn’t it.

Unknown to her, her lips formed his name, a breathy whisper that pleaded and beseeched for him to do something to take her suffering away, something to help her; touching her would be enough, hearing his voice would drive away that dark beast that was gnawing at her insides.

She breathed _his_ name, like a litany, like a spell that could drive the pain away. She thrashed on the bed, and felt hands trying forcefully and as tenderly as possibly to keep her down. A sudden stab of pain build and crested like a wave, then another, and another, like there was something inside her breaking, ripping up, tearing her apart from the inside out.

“Anders,” she heard a voice, “what is happening?”

She lost consciousness after that and didn’t hear Ander’s agonized voice begging her to fight, to not give in. Even if she had, she would probably ignore it. Giving in felt so good right now, a refuge against the pain; she sighed as her mind mercifully shut down; _his_ name was the last thing to flash into her mind before she fell backwards into the dark void that was beckoning her, eager to swallow her whole.

 _Fenris_. One last breathy sigh, and then...nothing.

* * *

Anders worked like a man possessed. Damn. He had been too confident, too cocky when he had healed her, had not anticipated how her body, already taxed with heavy blood loss and shock, would react to the additional stress of being newly pregnant.

She had gotten a fever late into the night, and a frantic Aveline had sent Bodahn to fetch him. By the time he had arrived her slight shivers had turned to cramps, and then to spasms. Blood had started seeping from between her legs, and that was when Anders realised how stupid he had been, how incredibly short-sighted, when he had boasted he had saved them all.

Her body, trying to stay alive, was rejecting the small lives inside her. It didn’t matter to her body that she would be crushed if she survived to find out she had miscarried, all it cared about was staying alive; in the order of animal, subconscious instincts, survival came first, reproduction was second. So her body had automatically started the process of eliminating the biggest threat to its own survival, taxing her already stretched-thin strength: the two little sparks of life, each barely bigger that a loose connection of cells, that were stubbornly fighting to stay alive.

Her babies didn’t even have a heartbeat yet, but they were fighting just as fiercely as their mother ever would.

Anders knew he had to let nature take its course, that the miscarriage would greatly improve her chances of surviving, but he couldn’t find it in his heart to stand back and watch; no. These little babies, still unformed, still not even technically alive, were fighting with the ferocity of a dragon to stay attached to a mother that would be crushed by their loss. He felt compelled to help them, both for their sakes and hers.

So he put everything he had, everything he was, all his skill and talent to the task of keeping  them all alive.

Kirkwall would speak of the battle Hawke had given that day for years and years to come; unknown to but a few, another fiercer, more desperate battle had taken place that very night.

Anders was victorious in the end, managing to keep both mother and foetuses alive, after nearly addling himself with lyrium and draining himself to a point where the people in the room feared for his own life as well.

Nobody named him Champion, though.

* * *

Sebastian staggered into Hawke’s mansion in the wee hours of the morning, drunk and reeking of cheap perfume, sex and sweat, to be met with the disapproving gaze of Guard Captain Aveline who had her arms crossed in front of her chest and a frown on her face sour enough to curdle milk.

“Where in the blazing Void have you been?” she spat, then her eyes took in his appearance and hardened into a look of utter and total disgust.

“I cannot believe it!” she yelled. “You have been out partying and frolicking with...with whores, while your fiancé was fighting for her life! What kind of monster are you?”

The fog that was blissfully covering Sebastian’s head lifted at her words. “What do you mean fighting for her life? That damned abomination assured me she was fine.” Then he paled just a bit and his eyes shot wide. “Did something happen to my heirs?”

Aveline brought her hands into her hair and yanked. Her whole body was shaking with rage. She let out a frustrated groan, and that seemed to make her regain her composure but not her previous good opinion of the Prince. “That is all she is to you, isn’t it? Just a convenient womb, a brooding mare to sire your heirs on?” She spat on the floor next to his feet and walked past him, totally repulsed by him. “And never talk of Anders like that again. He might be what he is, but he nearly killed himself to save them all tonight, a fact you should feel grateful for, _Prince,_ ” she sneered the last word with contempt, clearly not thinking of him to be anything even remotely princely.

“Are my sons alright?” Sebastian ignored the insult and just gave her a cold look. Aveline was nobody. She wasn’t important. If she caused him any troubles, he would get rid of her with just one carefully placed request to whomever would become the new Viscount. Maybe that would even be... himself. He smiled coldly at the idea. Why not? It would be a perfect opportunity, Kirkwall was already in chaos, ripe for the taking. If he was going to have twin sons, one could inherit Starkhaven and the other could rule Kirkwall. The Vael family would be the most powerful one in the Free Ma..

“You are having girls,” Aveline’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Girls?” he bristled, seeing his grandiose plans crash and die just as soon as they were being born. “Shit. Girls are useless to me.”

“I will be sure to tell that to Hawke.” Aveline tossed at him as she was leaving.

Damn. And she’d thought that Fenris had been a bad choice.

* * *

Fenris woke in total darkness, dizzy and disoriented. His heart started thumping with panic as soon as he realised his hands were bound behind his back, and he had a blindfold on; taking a deep breath and calling on years of discipline, he willed himself to relax. Maker knew how many times he had come to in this state, having blacked out during Danarius’ infamous ‘punishments’. Waking up scared and panicked, without your wits about you, was the best way to assure that might be the last time you ever woke up.

He drew on convulsing breath after the other, making his tensed muscles relax and his heartbeat slow down by sheer will alone. When he finally calmed, and the sound of his own panicked heartbeat wasn’t beating like a drum in his ears, he carefully titled his head to the side and took stock of his condition.

First, his own self. No pain, other than the throbbing in his head. Was that from his drinking or...no, they had probably hit him on the head as well, because he could feel an area at the back of his scull more tender than the rest of it. His hands were tied behind his back and there seemed to be a blindfold of a sorts over his eyes.  He tried the strength of his restraints and realised they were made of metal, strong and sturdy; he tried activating his markings to phase out of them but felt an immediate sharp pain in retaliation. The bindings were enchanted, like the collar Danarius had made him wear to keep him leashed, responding to his lyrium markings.

So that was final. He had been captured.

Resisting the new urge to rage at his stupidity, at the way he had allowed his vigilance to lapse, he tried instead to concentrate on getting some idea of his surroundings. The floor seemed to be moving, and he could discern...yes. That was the faint neighing of a horse. So he was on a cart, or wagon, or even a carriage, as he could not feel any breeze on his skin. He tried to determine what time of day it was, but without any light it was impossible.  His pointed ears caught the sound of voices too, but the sound was too faint to really make out what they were saying; the only comfort was that this language definitely was not Tevene. So somebody had captured him, not Tevinter slavers, but they had done their homework. They knew about his special powers and how to contain them.

His mind started reeling with what-ifs and possibilities and he had to make a conscious effort to keep focused once again. Thinking about who it was that had him captured and what they were planning to do with him was only going to make his mind tired and unfocused; he had to stay calm, he had to stay relaxed and wait for the right opportunity to present itself.

Then, whoever his captors were, he would feed their hearts to the dogs and escape. He had done it before and he could do it again. He would escape.

And then make his way back to her. He closed his eyes and forced his mind to relax, pushed away all the dismal thoughts that he would never see her again, that he had been a fool to believe he could ever give her up, ever live without seeing her, even from afar, even with her belonging to another man. His very soul was crying out for her right now, asking for nothing else than to see her face one more time. If, of course, she was alive, if she had survi...no. Hawke was strong. Anders would save her, that worthless abomination was at least good for one thing, and he loved Hawke, he wouldn’t let her die. Hawke had to be alive.

 _Hawke. My Hawke_ , he thought, the name nearly whispered in a solemn promise _. I will see you again.  Maker help me, I might die trying, but I will see you again._

* * *

_It took me a few days to realise Fenris was gone. With all the hoopla that followed the Arishok incident, and Hawke being gravely wounded, it took me a few days to go check out how he was; I found the mansion empty._

_I thought the damned elf had left the city and paid no more thought. Maker knew, I had enough troubles of my own to keep my mind occupied after all._

_I saw Aveline a few days after the fight, she had been too busy with the clean-up but when I did, she told me what had happened that night and I was ...well, I was pissed. Hawke had gotten better by then, sitting up in bed, and even daring to take a few steps, Anders at her side night and day._

_Sebastian was there too, polite and courteous and full of saccharine tenderness towards her. It sickened me to see it. Aveline had passed me the hot potato of telling her what had gone on that night and it was not a conversation I was looking forward to._

_What was I supposed to tell her? Hey Hawke, by the way, the night you almost lost your babies and died, your fiancé was banging away half the whores in the Rose? And guess what, this will make you laugh, hahaha, the elf left too? And, bear with me here, your Prince was mighty disappointed you are having girls?_

_I couldn’t find the words, and for me that is a rare, rare occurrence._

_But as it turned out, there was no need to bad-mouth the Prince._

_Hawke broke it off on her own._


	28. Chapter 28

 

Sebastian sparred a look to the square behind him, the people that were mulling around the streets like in  a daze, lost and disoriented after the Qunari attack; the city had still not recovered, the citizens in a constant state of shock, looking at the burned debris that still littered the streets with disbelief and a feeling of unreality.

He turned his attention to the heavily ornate door of the Chantry again, the sight both familiar and unsettling. He felt strange being back here, as if the version of himself that had spend years of quiet contemplation behind these walls and his current self were two complete people. He felt like bawling; the day he had given up the Chantry had been his last day of peace.

He had found himself thrust into a political pit of vipers the day he had returned to Starkhaven. At first he had tried to keep true to some of his convictions at least, but soon the treachery and duplicity surrounding him had hardened his heart. The failings of the men around him had brought out his own, had made him realise that he had had to put the Chantry brother behind him and unearth the Prince, the young man who had been brought up to think he was better than anyone else just because his last name had happened to be Vael, just because he had been born in a position of wealth and privilege. He was now surprised how little time it had taken that man to emerge again, how quickly his years of being devoted to the Maker had fallen behind like the skin shed by a snake.

Being in the Chantry again brought all that pointedly home and for a moment he felt hot, searing regret wash through his soul;  a headache started pounding in his temples. He remotely wished he had never made that bet, had never won it, had never realised he wanted his throne back. Hawke had been the catalyst, but the desire, he realised now, had been burning inside him like a live coal ever since an indignant and rebellious young Sebastian had been forced through these very doors.

Elthina had summoned him, and he had rushed like a beaten puppy, both longing to be in her presence and hear her voice that had always been able to soothe his soul and dreading it at the same time, because he knew Elthina would not approve of the man he had now become.

And that...saddened him. The headache became stronger at that thought, and he shook his head to clear it, along with a little voice that started leering at him that he was a fool.

 _You are a Prince_ , the voice scolded. _She has no power over you, unless you let her._

He straightened his shoulders with a sigh as he approached her, standing under the statue of Andraste with a stern look on her face, and prepared himself for the lecture he was sure to receive. Every step in her direction brought both regret and determination. The voice ringing in his head was right. He was not a Chantry brother any more. He was not Elthina’s protégée. Not anymore. He was the Prince of Starkhaven. He was a ruler and the words ‘ruler’ and ‘ruthless’, as his father had once told him, didn’t start with the same syllable by mistake.

“Grand Cleric,” he nodded respectfully, his gaze only briefly meeting the calm grey eyes of the woman that had been like a surrogate mother to him all these years; those eyes, usually so warm and tender, were now stormy grey, heavy with anger like thunderclouds.

“Sebastian,” she said. “Welcome, child.”

“My name,” Sebastian raised his eyes to the Grand Cleric, burying the very last of his regret with steely determination, “is Prince Sebastian Veal. You will address me as such, your Grace.”

He Grand Cleric flinched as if she had been slapped and then her lips thinned.

“Maker, help you, child,” she whispered. “Maker help you and guide you. You have changed Sebastian. I did not want to believe the reports of your deeds...but they are true. You have lost your way.”

“The Maker guides me still, your Grace,” Sebastian replied. “He has led me here.”

“Sebastian...” her eyes hardened even more. “Do not mock the Maker. He has given you ears, he would have you use them. Hear the outcry of the people against you, child. The Prince of Sebastian, whoring his nights away, while engaged to the Champion of their heart. The Maker has given you brains; use them. He has given you a tender and gentle heart; do not harden it.”

“The Maker has given me a cock,” Sebastian uttered, with a jolt of malignant joy making him smile cockily to hear the shocked gasp that escaped her, the way she flinched and pulled back.  Anger at her chastising rose inside him. “I try to use that, as well.”

Shit. There were rumours flying around the city already, and if Elthina had heard, it was a matter of time for Hawke to hear of them too. He had hoped that in the heat of the celebrations after the defeat of the Qunari, his little...escapades would have gone unnoticed.

He folded his arms against his chest and shot the old woman in front of him a dismissive look. She was...sad, nearly heartbroken, her eyes glistening, and just for second a small twinge of guilt stabbed through his heart. Then he ruthlessly pushed it away. It was time she realised the Prince of Sebastian was not the Chantry brother that had looked up to her as if her face was the sun that had warmed him.

“You have changed, Sebastian,” she said again, her voice bleak. “I do not recognise you anymore. But the Maker still loves you and will greet you back with open arms, should you find your way back to him again. Come back to us. You need us.”

Sebastian turned his back and muttered “Don’t hold your breath,” as he was heading to the door, leaving the Chantry back...this time for good.

* * *

Hawke smiled as Anders who was sitting by her bed, reading to her form one of her favourite books, trying to alleviate the boredom that was making her itch. She had been confined to this bed for days, and Anders insisted that she should remain there for at least a few more weeks. She had protested, of course, but just the phrase “for the sake of the babies” had been enough to silence her.

She eyes fell to the blond head of the mage. She had no words to thank him, no words whatsoever. He had heard accounts of that night from Aveline, that Anders had nearly killed himself to keep her babies alive. Babies...she had woken up from her pain ridden, agonised sleep to be informed she was pregnant. Pregnant with twins. Twin girls.

The idea was too huge for her brain to contain. She run a hand down her stomach, still flat, and wondered in awe of it could be true. Two lives, two little babies, growing inside her, getting bigger and bigger by the day; soon she would be able to feel them. Just a few more months, and she would be swollen with them, she would be able to feel them move inside her. A few more months after that and she would be holding her babies. Her babies. The thought brought her such amazing happiness, it was little she could do to keep herself with whooping with joy.

She realised Anders had stopped reading and raised her eyes to his face, to see him with an indulgent smile, tenderly following the movement of her hand on her belly.

“It seems unreal, doesn’t it? He asked and she smiled, blushed a bit at being caught daydreaming like a little girl and then brought another hand up to her belly.

“It is real, though, isn’t it, Anders?” she asked for his reassurance again, asked to be told once more, so that this time she might believe it.

Anders’ smile grew even wider and he placed his hand on her belly too, a faint pulse of energy going through her. “Two little girls, yes, it is true, Hawke. Both in excellent health, and growing up fast, to one day become as beautiful as their mother.”

Their mother? Oh...that was her. She was going to be a mother. Maker above, she was going to be _mother_. And Sebastian was going to be father.

Her smile died at that thought.

Damn. Sebastian was going to be the father. How was she going to get herself out of this?

Anders saw the look of despair that crossed her face and his hand tightened over hers. “What is wrong, Hawke? Do you feel any pain?”

He sent another little exploratory jolt of power though her and then he relaxed. But her frown still hadn’t left her lovely features. She looked away for a moment and then back to his face, and he felt the tiny hairs on his forearms rise in fear.

“Hawke...tell me?” he beseeched.

“What...What will I do, Anders?” she whispered. “Sebastian was a mistake. I have to break this thing off, but how?” grasped his hand in hers, as if asking him for help. “He will never let me go. Not while I am carrying his children.”

Anders gave her a perplexed look, and then he understood. They were not married, but if Sebastian claimed the children as his, no magistrate on the whole of Thedas would deny him the right to claim them. By rights, the children were given to their sire. An unwed mother had no claim on her children, not if the father decided to own up to them, and especially if the father was a noble; Sebastian was more than that, he was a Prince, the ruler of a whole city-state. If this thing made it to the courts, justice would deem him more fitting to raise the babies, especially in comparison to a woman that had conceived and given birth out of wedlock. If they had been in Ferelden, where women were seen as equal to men, perhaps the case would have been different, although even there a man’s ‘ownership’ of his offspring was a given.

He felt Justice stir inside him at the unfairness of the whole situation and with some effort managed to contain him. It wasn’t fair, both he and Justice knew it. And Hawke knew it too, if the terrified look on her face was any indication.

He felt his heart bleed for her. The woman had taken a Qunari warlord on without even flinching, single-handedly saved an entire city, but her face had paled at the thought of someone taking her still unborn children from her.

They had to find a solution, he had to find a way to help. But the only thing that came to mind...she would have to be willing to have her reputation forever sullied, herself labelled as a whore for it to work. And he would have to get help, he would even have to ask the elf to help...who else to trust with this? Varric? Donnic? Yes, Donnic would help, especially if Aveline requested it.

He explained, and Hawke listened intently, the worried frown on her face slowly being replaced by a smile.

Apparently, Hawke didn't give a fuck about her reputation.

* * *

When Sebastian walked back into Hawke’s room, annoyed and irritated after his ‘talk’ with Elthina, he found a whole host of people there, Varric and Anders, and even Aveline with some of her guards. One of them was Donnic, Aveline’s fiancé, and the other one...he didn't know the other one.

He approached the bed, and leaned down to kiss her cheek, inwardly thinking that soon he would have to lay his foot down and kick all these people out of her life. She didn't expect to start running into the wilderness, taking on quest while pregnant with his children, did she? Well, even if she did, he would put an end to this. Even if the babies were girls, they were his. They would not become his heirs, but he could use them to make political alliances in the future. He’d get Hawke pregnant as soon as he could after she whelped them, and that time, he prayed he’d get the son he needed.

She turned her cheek away and his kiss landed somewhere in her hair. Feeling uneasy, fearing that Aveline had told her of his ‘nightly activities’, he sighed and prepared himself for battle. Time to assert his position; this was it.

They would hash out their differences, she would learn her place and accept it now, or never. He smiled coldly. She probably knew this time had been coming for a long time now. That’s why she had all these people here. For support.

“Sebastian,” she started before he had time to utter the carefully rehearsed words he was ready to utter, “we must talk. These people are all here as witnesses.”

“Hardly unprejudiced ones, though,” he frowned, slightly worried. “They are all your friends.”

“Guardsman Donnic and guardsman Brandon are not. Nor is brother Andrew, I am sure you two have met.”

Sebastian looked to the corner, where a Chantry brother he hadn’t noticed up until then sat quietly in a corner.

“What is the meaning if this, Hawke?” he crossed his arms in front of his chest, getting seriously apprehensive. His thing was not going as he had planned. He had planned to use his unborn children as leverage to make her accept his authority over her; to make her submit.

“I hereby proclaim,” she solemnly said, “that the children I carry are not yours, and that I find myself unable to keep to our marriage agreement. I release you from your promise to marry me, and accept your rightful anger. I have not been true. This I swear before all these witnesses.”

And she held out his ring to him, with a serious and grim expression on her face.

Sebastian’s eyes flew open in surprise. Shock numbed him to the bottom of his soul. She was lying, of course she was lying, he knew that, but...she was casting herself as a whore in front of witnesses from the Chantry, form the city guard, in front of her friends. Why?

Then it hit him. She was willing to have the whole city call her a cheating whore so that he would not have any legal claim on _his_ children. She was planning to take his children away from him. Damn her!

He narrowed his eyes. “The bairns are mine, we all know that. This will never work, Hawke. You will agree to marry me and raise my children with me, or I will raise them alone.”

Hawke’s hand, still holding out the ring, trembled just a tiny bit before she had the time to control it. _Maker_ , she pleaded, _please, make this work. Don’t let me lose my babies. He doesn’t want them. I want them, so, so much._

“The children are mine,” a voice rang out behind him, and Sebastian turned on his heels, fury boiling inside him, to look at the guardsman that had spoken.

“Or mine. You don’t know that,” Donnic spoke up with a slight blush on his face. He then grasped his fiancé’s hand and with a pleading look on his face, he brought it to his lips. “Forgive me, Aveline. It was one drunken night...Brandon and I, we were both drunk and so was the Champion...they could be mine.”

Aveline gasped and tears glistened in her eyes before she pulled her hand away and stormed out.

“You...you filthy liars!!” Sebastian spat, looking around in a rage fit to kill. “You are all in this together! I will not...”

“Enough!” the brother in the corner shouted. “I have heard enough and the proof is indisputable. Prince Vael, you should be grateful this...fallen woman had the decency to inform you of her duplicity. Otherwise you would be raising children whose origin is questionable; imagine what instability that would cause during your succession. I will inform her Grace of what has taken place here.”

He then turned to Hawke and gave a half-hearted nod. “Champion, the grand Cleric would have your confession as soon as possible. May the Maker have mercy on you for your sins.”

Sebastian was left there looking at the retreating back of the priest with his whole body shaking in rage. How had this happened? How had everything burned and crashed like that? That...bitch! She dared throw his ring back to his face, dared come up with this scheme to keep his children away from him, dared humiliate him like that! He would be the ridicule or Starkhaven when he went back, they would whisper and sneer behind his back. He clenched his fists in impotent rage.

There was nothing he could do.

Then a thought crossed his mind and he looked at Hawke, hate in his eyes. He snatched his mother’s ring out of her hand and shot her a cold, furious look.

“This isn’t over, Hawke. Not by a long shot.”

One thought, and one thought kept him from throttling her.

There was nothing he could do to her, but her beloved elf was his, and he would suffer for the insult Sebastian had just suffered.

* * *

Aveline and Donnic returned to the room as soon as Sebastian had stormed out, banging the door behind him, amid claps and cheers.

“Brilliant performance!” Varric applauded. “Aveline, why aren’t you on the stage, my dear? Tears? I couldn’t believe it!”

Aveline took a bow and Donnic smiled as Anders patted his back.

Hawke smiled at her friends, still a bit shaken, but relieved beyond measure, warmth spreading inside her.

Varric, Aveline and Anders had orchestrated the whole thing, Donnic had gladly agreed to help and guardsman Brandon, his best friend, had even volunteered.

For the first time on weeks, she felt the sense of betrayal and the loneliness it had brought lift from her heart. Her friends had come through for her, and had managed to free her from this cage she had put herself in, out of her own stupidity.

A weight had just lifted from her heart. She felt happy and hopeful, for the first time after Maker knew how long. After all that horrible mess with Fenris, after all the heartache, she felt happy for the first time, at the knowledge that her babies were safe, that she was free from the promise she had made at a moment when her wounded ego and her pain had been blinding her.

She felt like this was a day for new beginnings and stretched her head to look outside the open door of her room, certain that Fenris would be lurking somewhere out in the corridor.

It was a day for new beginnings. Perhaps, they could have one too. Perhaps all they had to do was talk, and put the pain behind them. Maybe they could salvage something, friendship, a professional relationship, anything. As long as she could see him, as long as she knew he was safe. He didn't love her, she knew that, but she did. She could hide behind her own finger no longer.

Varric caught her gaze, and sadness softened his eyes when he realised who she had been looking for.

“Hawke,” he told her and her eyes had turned to him, full of hope and joy. He felt like a bastard for doing this, breaking that radiant smile that crumbled like a porcelain mask at his next words.

“He is gone, Hawke. He left the city. I’m so sorry.”

* * *

Fenris paced the small cell he had been thrown in and looked up to the damp ceiling. Dark stone encased him, not even a single, small window present to let him at least discern what time of day of night it was, or to let even a small breeze of fresh air in. The door was all solid steel, stronger than what even his lyrium enhanced strength could help him break through.

He counted his paces again, silently measuring the dimension of his dismal prison. Ten by ten feet at the best. Hardly any space to move. No air, no sunshine, no human contact, not since the moment they had tossed him in here. There was a mage outside there, who had placed a lyrium encrusted collar on his neck and had chanted the necessary enchantments to make it suppress his lyrium markings; obviously Trevinter trained, but not strong enough to be a magister.

So he was not in the hands of his former master. At least not yet.

He looked up and once more his thoughts flew to her. Had anybody noticed he was missing yet? Had they just thought he had upped and left the city? Would anybody come looking for him? Would she?

 _Why would she, you fool?_ a little voice inside his head berated him. _Why would she? She has her Prince, she has her new title, she has everything she has ever wanted. She has what you couldn’t give her._

 He couldn’t help but wonder. Did she even think of him? Had somebody already gone to tell her he was missing? Had she tossed her head in the air, and said _who gives a fuck_ or had her eyes saddened at the thought he was gone from her life?

_Why would she even spare a thought for you, you idiot? Why would she think of you with anything but hate, after all you did and said?_

Still, hope, just a little shimmer of it trembled in his heart like the flickering flame of a candle. Even if she never came - and she wouldn’t, she had no reason to- he would find a way out if this hellhole and make his way back to her.

He sat in the corner, his ears and eyes focused on the door, glowing in the darkness with unwavering intensity.

A chance would come. That’s all he wanted. Just one chance at freedom.

 _Hawke_ , he lamented, her very name making his insides clench.

 _Wait for me_.

* * *

_Sebastian left for Starkhaven that very day, and good riddance. I knew, of course, just as Hawke did, that this wouldn’t be the last we heard of him, but at least the engagement was off._

_But my poor Hawke was once more heartbroken. I will never forget the way that brilliant smile on her face slowly crumbled, I will never forget it for as long as I live. It was like watching a brilliant light slowly go out, form her eyes, from her smile, from her soul. I felt like a bastard for telling her, but she needed to be told. She had used a small, sad voice to ask us all to leave her room, after thanking Donnic and that other guardsman, Brandon, once more._

_I think she cried herself to sleep that night._

_A week later, and while Hawke was still in bed, I got a strange urge, and this time, I followed my instincts, dear readers. There had been a little voice telling me something was not right with the elf’s disappearance form the very start, so I went to his mansion and looked around. I saw what I hadn’t seen that day; signs of battle and multiple footsteps on the thick dust that covered most floors. I also saw that book of his that he loved so much, the one that Hawke had given him, the one he had been learning to read from._

_And that’s when it hit me. The elf would never have left that book behind. Somebody had kidnapped him, he hadn’t left._

_I run to Hawke, and she had nearly leapt out of bed, dismissing Anders’ warnings. She was frantic, panicked, nearly trembling. She begged me to check, to find out, to see if there had been any Trevinter ships in the city lately._

_I put all my contacts to the ground, all my people looking for clues, until in the end, we found out there had been a suspicious looking caravan going out of town that very day he had disappeared._

_Destination: Starkhaven._

_Weather forecast: shit storm._


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not an easy chapter. Be warned. Depiction of torture.

Fenris sat in the corner of his dark, dank cell, staring intently at the door. His eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness after the first few hours, and now he could make out the faint outline of objects, just by the small glimmer of light filtering in through the cracks. He had already managed to get his bearings, able to distinguish if it was night or day by the intensity of the light he could see through the slit under the door. There was  a small opening at the bottom of it, a latched window of a sort, small enough that he could never use it to escape, but big enough for food and other necessities to be pushed through. They had been giving him food and water through it, once a day; it had been enough to give him a sense of the agonisingly slow passing of time. He counted the days by the opening and closing  of that damned little window, he regulated his internal clock to it. He knew he had already been here for a couple of days  at least; at first, dazed and disoriented, he hadn’t been able to follow the passing of the hours.

The little window at the bottom of the door slid open and a metal plate was thrust in, sloshing its meagre, thin soup on the floor. A water skin followed, and Fenris slid the bucket he had been left with to relieve himself in towards the opening, deliberately not pushing it through. He narrowed his eyes as a hand reached in to grasp it. It was pale, and had reddish freckles, definitely human, not elven. He catalogued that information in his mind; one never knew when the slightest information would come in handy. He smirked, but it was an evil, calculating little smile. The owner of the hand also didn’t realise what a huge mistake he had just made, thrusting his hand into the wolf’s mouth like that. If he ever managed to get out of this blasted collar, and if he made sure the man was alone, next time he could grab that hand and make the person on the other side open up. Or risk losing a limb.

He sipped the thin soup, eating slowly and deliberately, no matter how much his stomach growled. Eating slowly helped alleviate the hunger more than gulping it down. He made sure to drink as much water as possible too,  and took regular stops to let his stomach settle. Getting sick because you ate too quickly when you were starving was never a good thing, especially if you were being fed once a day.

Oh, yes, Fenris had experience being hungry. He also knew exactly what to do to keep himself in as god a condition as possible until the chance to escape presented itself. He was no stranger to dark, musty dungeons, no stranger to being tortured and beaten. Just the fact that they were feeding him and not letting him here to starve gave him an indication of their intentions; he was either being kept in relatively good condition because they were planning to sell him or they had other, more sinister designs for him, namely torture.

In his experience, if you wanted a prisoner dead, you just threw him in a cell and forgot about him, until the lack of food and water brought him to a slow, agonising death. He felt relieved this wasn’t what they were planning for him, but at the same time, he dreaded thinking about what they were going to do to him. There was a time when torture and pain was a nearly every day part of his life, and he had grown accustomed to the constant fear; these days had been put behind him, though, and he now doubted his ability to  take it. They hadn’t done anything like that to him yet, but he couldn’t let himself worry and stress over it, because that might have been exactly what they were aiming at: making him agonise and dread the moment the door would open instead of having his wits about him and escape.

If things came to that, he knew what to do also. Never talk back, never push your torturers, but never break in, never scream and cry either. Those bastards that took up positions as torturers were usually sadistic bastards, and the sound of your screams was like music to their ears; if things got too far, he knew a couple of ways to make himself pass out and escape the pain, like hyperventilating. In the past, he had found that torturers usually stopped once the victim had blacked out, not out of pity, but because their instructions had been not to cause permanent damage.

The slit  at the bottom of the door opened again, and the bucket slid back in, clean. He pushed the now empty plate out but kept the water skin. The slit remained open, and he counted the seconds; would his captor open the door? Would he be allowed to keep the skin?

“Oi, you elf,” a rough voice shouted, “Don’t make me come in there.”

Fenris pushed the water skin out, almost chuckling to himself. An accent. There was a faint trace of an accent on the voice, something familiar that he just couldn’t place  yet, but once he did, he would know, at least roughly, where he was.

He was left in darkness again and once he was certain the guard had moved away he started his daily routine of getting ready for whatever the future might bring-for the nug shit to start flying, as Varric would have said.

He ruthlessly pushed his body into various stress positions, trying to re-teach his muscles to accept the pain they had once known so intimately. He stood with his hands thrust behind him, and raised his arms as far up as he could, he bend and stretched every joint in his body in a variety of unnatural angles. He used his own nails and teeth on parts of his body that were more sensitive and susceptible to pain. If they ever allowed him a candle he would use that too, drawing the flame near to his most sensitive skin, to make his body get used to the sensation of being burnt.  He even got as far as delivering a few punches to his own stomach, taking care not to bruise himself, to desensitise himself to the shock of being beaten.

Meditation came next, an hour or so of intense concentration, with slow regular breaths. It helped clear his mind, helped the endless scenarios and the fear diminish from his mind; it would not serve any purpose to panic. Panic meant death. Panic was the enemy. The people out there could not harm him; they could kill him, maim him, rape him. But if he didn't panic, he would find a way to survive and that was the main objective here: survival. Whatever damage they inflicted on his body or his psyche, could be dealt with later, after he found a way to break free. For now, the main thing was to stay alive and get out.

And get back to Hawke. As he got out of his meditative state he allowed his brain to drift back to her. A beacon of hope for the future, a memory of a loved one, even one he had hurt – no, he stopped himself. No dark thoughts in this dismal place. He cleared his head and then brought an image of Hawke in his mind, her smiling up to him, welcoming him back with open arms, her sweet mouth surrendering to his kiss. He kept her image in his mind as he settled back into his corner.

There was no point surviving if there was nothing to survive for, after all.

He kept vigil, staring at the door intently again, his body relaxed but alert and ready for action. He didn't let himself sleep at night, because he knew that if they ever came for him, they would do it at night, waking him up just to throw him in a nightmare while his brain was still groggy form sleep; instead, he slept in brief naps during the day, and spent the whole night in silent attention.

Guards were also less careful at night. It was a matter of time before one of them made a mistake. That’s all he wanted, one small mistake on their part.

Another day passed like that, until they finally came for him. He was taken to a room where various torture instruments and a burly man with a thick, greying beard was waiting. Fenris allowed his eyes to widen a bit more as he passed his eyes over some of the devices, knowing they were the ones he could withstand more easily, but also knowing that his soon-to-be torturer was watching his face for signs of fear. These, the ones he pretended to fear- would be the devices that would be used on him. If he was going to be tortured on any of those things, he might as well be the one to choose them.

He was led to a post and his hands were tied over his head with a rope that was then stretched through a pulley until only the tips of his toes were in contact with the floor. He knew the position. It was uncomfortable right now, but as the night progressed, it would become agonising. Soon his calf muscles would start trembling with the strain and he would attempt to rest his aching, protesting tendons by putting more weight on his toes; that would cause his shoulder joints to scream in agony. He took a few deep breaths, willing his body to relax, and deliberately bent his knees just a tiny bit as they were pulling him up by his arms, resisting the urge to alleviate the pain in his hands and arms by stretching his legs to touch the ground. That would give him some more slack if the torturer didn't catch on to his plan. And he didn't. He stopped tensing the rope as soon as Fenris toes were the only connection he had to the ground. The elf nearly chuckled.

What an amateur.

When the beating started, first with a cane and then progressing to a whip, he didn't flinch, didn't show any sign of pain. The pain was like an old friend coming back to visit; he wasn’t glad but he knew it. He knew when to tense and when to relax his body to make the blows less painful, he knew not to fight against the pain but accept it, embrace it even, make it empower him instead of weaken him. The torturer was methodical and precise, torturing him not with menace or rage, but delivering one carefully calculated blow after the other. And that was worse, because it felt that he was being tortured without rhyme or reason; it was just a job for the man holding the whip. He probably didn't even know why he was torturing Fenris, if the elf had done something, _anything_ , to deserve this.

When blood started seeping down his back and the pain rose higher and higher, he grit his teeth against the need to cry out and instead sent his brain to his happy place, a place where pain could not reach him; a quiet, picturesque cottage hidden away in a lush meadow, smoke rising from the chimney, evergreens shading it and protecting it from the world. A woman sitting in the yard, raising her dark head to smile to him as he approached, a baby bouncing on her lap. The child’s laughter, bubbly and joyous, and her smile, so full of love as he approached. Her voice. Her beautiful voice welcoming him home.

 _Hawke_. Crack and whish and the sickening sound of ripped flesh being torn even further. _Hawke. Hawke._ Pain again, the sickening sound of the air splitting as the whip descended. _Hawke. My lovely Marian._ Her name was like a litany, drowning out the sounds, the smells, the throbbing pain.

The torturer eventually stopped, but he didn't even pay attention. There was a smile playing on his face, and the man looked at him like he was deranged. He didn't care. He desperately clung to the image of Hawke, his baby, his house, her loving smile, the memory of her taste, her voice.

He was thrown back into his cell, and he fell into an exhausted sleep, his wounds still bleeding, his joints aching, pain still riding his nerve endings.

But that smile remained.

* * *

“Hawke, please,” Anders grasped her hand once more. “Please listen to me! You have to take it slower, you have to rest! You have been on that saddle all day, do you want to lose your babies?”

Varric and Aveline exchanged a worried glance.

Hawke didn't even pause. Moving quickly, with economic movements, she bridled and saddled her horse once again, ignoring Anders.

Anders had had enough. He was worried sick about her. She had started spotting again, but refused to stop. Cramps were shooting through her stomach making her double over but she pushed on, with dogged determination. She was going to lose those babies at this rate, and then she would torment herself with guilt and self accusation, he knew her.

“This stops right now!” he grasped her shoulders and turned her towards him. “You will stop now, or I will put you under, I swear. You need to be resting, not galloping through the countryside.”

“What do you suggest I do?” she exploded. “Let him die?” Her eyes took on a forlorn, agonised expression. “Maker, Anders! Sebastian has him, I know it! He will kill him!”

“Why do you care? He left you, hurt you, broke your heart! Why do you still love him?”

Hawke turned to the horizon, her face hardening into a self-contemptuous, frustrated scowl.

“I can’t help it.” She then sighed and turned to Varric. “Did you get the plans to the Starkhaven palace from that friend you mentioned?”

The dwarf drew a hastily drawn map. “Hawke, let us go and take Broody out...Maybe you should rest, you know, Anders says...”

“No!” she placed a hand over her belly. “I will not have these babies at the expense of Fenris’ life. I will have them all safe, or lose them all. That is final.”

But just then a strong  cramp doubled her over and she felt moisture pool between her legs. She whimpered and Anders was at her side in an instance, supporting her, casting wave after wave of healing magic at her belly.

“You damned little fool!” he raged. “Look what you’ve done to yourself!”

He looked around him, frantically looking for a place to have her lie down so he could assess the damage better and Aveline led the way back to the inn room they had just vacated, Hawke cradled in Anders’ arms.

Varric sighed and tucked the map back into his pocket. He looked up to the slowly setting sun, with a concerned, sad expression on his face. He hated the idea of Fenris being somewhere out there, probably in Sebastian’s grasp, being tortured, or beaten or whatever. But it seemed that the rescue mission would have to wait.

* * *

Hawke lay there, in bed, confined to bed rest until she stopped bleeding. Anders hovered around her, checking up on her and the babies three times a minute, driving her absolutely crazy. Aveline and Varric were off somewhere, gathering intel as Varric had said, trying to find out if anyone had caught a glimpse of a strange looking elf; the elf had already brought back disturbing news, of Sebastian having announced the dissolution of their engagement and that nasty rumours of why that happened had already been circulating around the city. But according to the gossip going around, Sebastian hadn’t stayed in Starkhaven long, but that’s where the rumours got a bit jumbled. Some said he had gone to Ferelden, others that he had returned to Kirkwall to convince his ‘love’ to accept him back. Nobody knew where he was.

But Hawke was certain, wherever Sebastian was, that’s where they would eventually find Fenris.

Her mind drifted to him again, she couldn’t help herself. She prayed he was safe, that they hadn’t hurt him, hoping against hope that Sebastian wouldn’t stoop so low as to torture and torment a man he had once called a comrade.

Her heart ached at the thought of Fenris being...Maker. She couldn’t even think about it. How pathetic was she, aching like that for a man that had treated her like dirt, that had stomped on her heart like it was nothing. She still remembered the seething, hateful expression in his eyes, the last words he had tossed to her. _May you rot in the Void, Hawke. Rot and die_. The memory of the pain she had felt that day as her dreams had been shattered still made her heart constrict; he had been so cruel, so heartless. She remembered how she had cried and screamed his name, all alone in the little dark cave and anger came back to fight with the heartache, the regret, the worry. She was really pathetic. Why couldn’t she convince her heart not to care? She had pushed herself so hard, she had endangered her babies, and for what? A man that had never loved her, that would never love her.

She sighed and Anders was at her side in an instance again, looking over her worriedly.

“What is it?” he frantically run his hands over her body, looking for the source of her discomfort and when he didn't find anything, he gave her a questioning look. She averted her eyes, a slightly embarrassed look on her face and he drew a deep breath, irritation mounting in him.

“Thinking of him again?” his voice was bit rougher than he had intended.

“I can’t help it, Anders,” she said, blushing a bit. “I told you. I’m a one man woman.”

“Yet you let the Prince fuck you.”

Her eyes glinted, and she barred her teeth. “How dare you?” she spat. “None of this would have happened if you fools hadn’t bet on me!”

Anders raised his hands in the air, concerned that his careless words had upset her. “I apologise. It just slipped out.”

“Well, you can slip out of here, too, and now, before I get my sword!” and she turned her back on him, burying her head in the pillow.

Anders sighed, calling himself ten kinds of idiot and left her room, sighing heavily. He was so desperately in love with her, and so jealous; she had taken an interest in any other men that had been involved in that damned bet, except him; him that had been at her side all this time, sacrificing everything for her, devoting himself to her. Justice started raging in his head that this distraction had gone on long enough, and he made a conscious effort to suppress his voice. Why couldn’t she just open her eyes and see him, see that he was the only one that would never hurt her? The elf had broken her heart, the Prince had used her, tried to manipulate her, had taken advantage of the fragile state of her heart to get what he wanted. None of them had cared for her as much as he did.

Why couldn’t she see that?

* * *

The mage had been sent in to treat his wounds, and then the torture had gone on. It had been the rack tonight, and the pain had been excruciating. His limbs and joints screamed at him, the pain rose over him in waves, dark waves that threatened to rob him of his control; even retreating into that happy place in his mind hadn’t helped. 

His torturer had gotten the first screams out of him tonight.

As he lay there on his straw mattress, his body broken and bruised, his mind screamed her name, hoping against hope that someone, anyone, _Hawke_ , would come to his aid.

Hope. Hope was the only thing that kept him sane. In his heart Fenris knew that no matter how much he had hurt her, no matter how he had broken her heart, no matter how much of a blasted, rotten bastard he had been to her, she would come for him. Hawke would not abandon him.

 _Hope_ would not abandon him.

* * *

The torturer removed his dark hood and run a hand through his hair, tidying himself up before knocking on the ornate office door. A voice answered and he walked in, closing the door respectfully behind him.

“Any progress?”

“Aye, my Lord.” He bent his head. “The rack worked. I made him scream tonight.”

Sebastian raised his head to the man, and his lip curled into a little smug smile.

“Good. Keep it up. Don’t cause permanent damage, but make him scream.”

The torturer turned to leave, relieved he had pleased his young master. The previous times, when he had reported that despite the whipping and the beatings the elf hadn’t broken, that he had had a freaking smile on his face, the Prince had been furiously angry and had threatened to punish him with the same methods that he had failed to use properly on the elf. He hesitated, just before getting out of the room; the elf had won a grudging kind of respect from him, with his quiet dignity, his control, his refusal to break in. He had been wondering for a few days now, but hadn’t found the courage to ask, not while his Lord was so angry.

“Excuse me, my Lord,” he stuttered, before he lost his nerve, “but if I may ask...What has the elf done?”

Sebastian’s eyes gleamed.

“He stole what was rightfully mine.”

“Ah, then he deserves what he gets, my Lord,” the torturer said with a sigh.

Too bad. He was beginning to actually like the elf.

* * *

_The tension in our little group those days was thick enough to cut with a knife. Anders moped around like a beaten puppy, Aveline was frantic with worry, and Hawke...Hawke couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, couldn’t rest._

_As for me, I worked. I worked tirelessly, I put my nose to the ground, spent a fortune bribing and making new contacts, until finally, finally, I found a clue._

_Sebastian had a summer house, somewhere in the mountains around Starkhaven. The minute I heard that, it was like bells started tinkling. I knew it, I just knew it, that I had found the place Fenris was being kept. I rushed to tell Hawke, but Anders stopped me, telling me that if she got out of bed at that very moment, then she would end up miscarrying._

_So I bit my tongue, and all the while agonised that she would never forgive me if we stormed that place a few weeks later to find the elf gone, or dead._

_Hell, I would probably never forgive myself either._

_I never learned if Anders was really concerned about her health, or trying to stall her. A part of my mind was telling me that Anders wasn’t like that, he wouldn’t use her health and that of her unborn babies to get rid of a rival, but on the other hand, I would have sworn Sebastian wasn’t that kind of person either. And look how wrong I had been about that!_

_So, no shit, there I was, between a rock and a hard place. Tell Hawke and be the reason she lost her babies, if Anders was telling the truth, or not tell her, and risk finding Fenris dead, or on his way to Tevinter, to be reunited with his master?_

_So two weeks got by until Hawke was well enough to get out of bed._

_In hindsight, if I knew what Fenris was going through while I twiddled my thumbs, I would have said something._

_I’ve said it before, but I will say it again._

_Isn’t hindsight a fucked-up bitch?_

 

 

 

 

 

 


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Graphic depiction of horrid wounds, burns and torture.

A woman sat alone in her slowly cooling kitchen, one eye on the baby that was snugly swaddled in its crib, the other on the small lit area outside the door of the servant’s entrance of the mansion across the yard. She saw the door open and a cloaked figure slip out; immediately, she got up, rekindled the fire, and prepared a helping of the modest stew still simmering in the pot over the fireplace.

As her husband slipped in, she rushed to help him take off his heavy cloak, and then immediately fetched a basin of water for him to wash, noting that his hands seemed to be more bloodied today than what they usually were. She had learned not to be bothered with her husband’s profession, with what she at first had thought was a cruel and sinful way to make sure her children were fed and clothed. But her family had needed the extra money, and she had appeased her conscience with he knowledge that her husband was only doing the Maker’s will, delivering justice to criminals.

He was even more a devout Andrastian than her, after all, and she knew he always asked what the crime he was delivering punishment for was. He had even refused to perform his duties when he had felt the punishment was unjust, although the old master, the young Prince’s father, had threatened to throw them off his land.

She sat watching him. He cleaned his hands thoroughly, then sat at the table in front of his plate; but he didn't touch it. His brow was creased with worry, and after she saw him fidgeting and playing with his food, she ventured a question.

“What is wrong, husband?”

He sighed and pushed the plate away.

 “That elf..”

“Aye. The one you told me that the young master wanted ye to punish? The one ye said was the strongest lad you've ever seen? What of him?”

“Aye, that one...I asked the young Prince what his crime was and he said that...he'd stolen from the Vaels. But Andraste be my witness, that elf doesn’t look like the thieving kind, ye know? There is something off here, wife. I’m afraid I’m torturing an innocent man, may the Maker forgive my soul.”

His wife looked at the sleeping baby in the crib, then out the window.

“What can you do?” she fearfully asked.

The man sighed again, before taking up his spoon again and drawing his plate closer.

“I know not. Maybe talk to the damned elf.”

His wife’s eyes blew open in fear. “Do not cross the young Vael, husband. He scares me. He isn’t the same young lad that I remember.”

Her husband shot her a thoughtful look, then noticed a speck of dried blood under his fingernail, and gave up on his food again, bile rising in his throat.

Blood of an innocent. The Chant of Light contemned the ones that caused suffering to the innocent. He remembered the way the elf had shuddered and groaned, refusing to scream, as the red hot poker had seared his body, the sickening smell of burning flesh rising in the air.

Maker help him, but if his suspicion was right, he had just tortured an innocent to near death.

* * *

“Why wasn’t I told of this before?”

Varric cowed before Hawke’s wrath. She hadn’t shouted or screamed, just paled, clenched her teeth until muscles popped out on her jaw,  and asked that question with a barely audible voice, her eerily quiet tone more frightening than what the loudest bellow could ever hope to be. Her eyes were burning holes into his face with their intensity. He snuck a sideways look to Anders, cursing himself a blue streak on the inside. Damn! he should have ignored the healer and just told her, days ago!

Hawke caught the look and turned to Anders.

“You told him not to tell me, didn't you?” she accused him, her fists clenching at her sides.

“Hawke...” Anders sighed. “Hate me if you must, but I had to. You would have miscarried, and then you would have never forgiven yourself for it. I’m sorry, but I don’t regret my decision.”

She brought her clenched fists to her face and tightened them, her whole body shaking in rage, until her knuckles turned white. She then threw her head back and growled in frustration.

“You...you idiot! Who gave you the right to make that decision on my behalf?” her eyes glinted menacingly. “Mark my words, Anders, but if this costs Fenris his life, I will make you suffer!” she spat and then sheathed her sword on her back and walked out of the room.

“You’re doing that already...” he mumbled, his heart breaking inside, as he watched her retreating back.

* * *

Pain washed over him as he carefully, trying hard to suppress his groans, took stock of every single part of his body, trying to access the damage that had been done. His back was one bleeding, throbbing wound, it seemed, waves of agony screaming down his nerves whenever he tried moving even the slightest of his muscles. The sickening smell of his own burnt flesh was making his stomach churn, and he stubbornly repressed the urge to start whimpering at the pain that engulfed him as he tried to raise his hands to his face to inspect the damage. The skin was black and red, whole chunks of it missing in some parts, letting the flesh underneath exposed and vulnerable. The pain was unreal. It was so much more than pain, much more than agony, threatening to short-circuit his brain, making his breath hitch and his heart stagger in his chest. No amount of meditation, no amount of mental shields could protect him from this, from the memory of his hands being dipped into the hot oil; he had blacked out and he hoped he would again soon- anything to escape this.

He held his wildly trembling hands in front of him, trying desperately to find the strength to keep them in the air, to not let anything touch his damaged, charred flesh, because when that happened he would scream, he would scream loudly enough to bring the dungeons down, he knew it.

Not even the excruciating pain of the lyrium branding had been as bad as this. Not even the pain that had erased his memories had been so brutal. He groaned and tied cradling his ruined fingers to his chest, only to be jolted with new, even stronger waves of intense agony.

No way he would ever be able to hold a sword with these hands again. His hands were ruined. Even if the mage came in to heal him immediately, which had never happened before so far, they had let his suffer for hours and hours before he was fixed and put into that dark dungeon again, the nerve and muscle damage would probably never be totally fixed.

Maker, why didn't they just kill him?

* * *

Hours later, lying in his own blood and vomit, he realised as in a daze that the door had been opened, that the mage had cast some kind of healing spell on him. The pain lessened, fell down to an almost bearable level, and someone threw a freezing cold bucketful of water on him; he was almost grateful for it, as it helped lift the fog that was blanketing his senses.

He heard a voice, a voice he knew, and struggled to raise his consciousness over the numbing pain that was still holding his brain into stupor. He knew that voice. Had someone come for him? Was he safe?

“Call me when he awakens. I want to talk to him”

“My Lord?” a voice asked. “Are ye sure that is safe?”

Then Fenris blacked out again, but not before a name flashed into his pain-drugged brain.

Sebastian.

* * *

 

It was awkward, Aveline unsuccessfully trying to break the ice by talking about everything other than the very visible strain among the party members. Hawke was not even speaking to Varric and the glances she shot to Anders were murderous enough to make the mage cringe. Merrill was sad and pensive; even her bubbly personality was nulled by the anger and tension that was thick enough to cut with a knife.

Finally, Anders had had enough.

“Hawke,” he mumbled as they made their way through the thick, oppressive forest, “I realise that you are angry at me, but...”

“No buts, Anders!” she growled. “It has been two weeks. Two weeks! Do you realise what might have happened to Fenris all this time? He might already be in Tevinter....or dead.” He voice broke at that thought, and her shoulders visibly drooped. “I realise you were acting with the best of intentions, I do, but you had no right to make that decision for me.”

“I am your healer,” he stubbornly defended himself, a frown creasing his forehead. “Until those babies are delivered safe and sound I am responsible for them. I did what I had to do, and I will NOT apologise for it.”

She shot the mage a lot that was both frustrated and furiously angry but he frowned even harder and didn't voice his mounting irritation at the fact that she was worried frantic over a man that had treated her so poorly.

“What will you tell Fenris about the babies?” Merrill’s sweet lilted voice interrupted what was soon going to erupt into another argument. All eyes turned to her and she fidgeted slightly before continuing. “I mean, when we find him, because I know we will find him, sooner or later. What do you think he will say? I’m sure he will be angry, won’t he? If, of course, he feels anything for you, which I’m sure he does, he must, otherwise...” She noticed the way Hawke’s eyes widened with horror at the thought, and bit her tongue to stop the rest of the words that had thoughtlessly tumbled out of her mouth.

Hawke swallowed hard and then sighed.

“Let’s just find him first,” she mumbled and turning her back on them all started trudging up the barely visible path again.

“I put my foot in it, didn't I?” Merrill asked Varric, who gave her a comforting half smile.

“You put both feet in, Daisy, but don’t fret. Better she be prepared.”

Hawke sighed once again, before inspecting the little clearing they were in and then casting a critical look at the slowly setting sun. It was too late to keep going; as much as she hated the fact that another day had gone by, she had to admit that they couldn’t keep trudging through the forest in the middle of the night.

“Make camp,” she addressed her companions, who let out sighs and groans of varying level of relief. “We’ll set off again early in the morning.”

Anders approached her cautiously.

“I need to check the babies,” he said, avoiding her eyes, and she huffed but allowed him to touch her belly softly, a faint blue glow emanating from his palm.

Anders’ lips curled into a little involuntary smile as he laid his hand on her still flat belly and he felt the now familiar jolt of the two tiny little life forces inside her, the twin frantic heartbeats. He kept his hand on her longer than was really necessary, just enjoying the feeling of those two new, untainted little lives.

“Everything good?” Aveline asked, a small smile on her lips too.

Merrill came close and laid her hand on her belly too, making Hawke jump a little in surprise.

“Hello, little da’lens,” the young elf smiled brightly and Anders’ smile grew even wider, all anger and tension forgotten at the warm, comforting sensation of two barely there life  forces singing under their combined magic.

Varric also put his hand on her belly, and after a while so did Aveline, all of them with warm, joyous smiles on their faces.

They stayed like this for a while, enjoying the soothing warmth that seemed to be radiating from underneath their linked fingers, before they heard a little stifled sob, and they all raised shocked eyes to Hawke’s face, to see her eyes brimming with tears.

“He will hate them.”

They all looked at her, shocked speechless, not knowing what to tell her to make her feel better.

“He will hate them,” she repeated and swiped angrily at the tears that had escaped her to trail down her cheek. “He hates me already, and he will hate them too.”

“You have us, Hawke,” Varric said. “We already love them, all of us.” And he looked around to the faces of the other members of the group who were all emphatically nodding in agreement.

“I for one, will love them like they are mine. After all,” Aveline said, “they are Donnic’s, let’s not forget that.”

Laughter echoed amid the tall, towering trees, scaring the roosting birds away.

* * *

_As of everything else wasn’t enough. As if it wasn’t bad enough that she had to worry about being able to carry her babies safely to term, or if Sebastian would try to take them away, or if we would manage to get to Fenris while he was still alive, Merrill had had to throw that comment, and make her wonder what would happen when Fenris learned, if ever, about the babies._

_How would you feel if the woman you were in love with was pregnant with the babies of the man who had given the order to fucking burn the flesh off your fucking fingers?_

_I wouldn’t really feel all that fatherly towards them, I don’t know about you._

_Hawke lost just a little bit of the spark that was left in her that night. She had been hoping that once we had found Fenris, they would somehow find a way to resolve their differences. Don’t get me wrong, she was far from hoping for a happily ever after, she honestly thought Fenris didn't love her, and truth be told, although she knew she herself loved him, she wasn’t certain if she could forgive him._

_But that night she realised that the babies she was carrying inside her meant there could never be anything between them, not even friendship._

_I could see that was killing her, but there was nothing I could say or do to help her._

_But, what do you know, in the end the elf surprised as all._


	31. Chapter 31

“Didn’t you sleep at all?” Aveline rubbed the sleep from her eyes and looked up to the woman that was standing over the small fire, her eyes turned to the brilliant pinks and purples of the dawning sky.

Hawke just sighed and rubbed her forehead.

“I couldn’t,” she simply said, her face still turned upwards, a small frown making it apparent that she didn’t even register the beauty of the rising sun, or the brilliant, multicoloured work of art that day’s morning sky had painted itself into for their sakes. Hawke’s attention was turned inwards, instead, to some dark and foreboding thought that was making her eyes swim with worry.

“He will be okay. We will find him, and rescue him, and there is not one thing that damned prince can do about it, Hawke. Stop fretting. You are hurting the babies.”

Hawke’s head whipped towards the older woman, her eyes narrowing.

“Will you all stop saying that to me all the time?” she hissed. “I don’t need a reminder, thank you very much. I am not going to do anything to hurt my babies.”

Anders stirred, yawned and opened his eyes.

“Wow. Fighting already. How nice.”

Varric opened one eye and gave them all an annoyed glare.

“Too early in the morning for bickering, people,” he grumbled. “Me and mornings...not a good relationship. Way to make it worse.”

Hawke looked from one face to the other, to her friends that all had annoyed and grumbling expressions on her face.

“Has any of you ever been tortured?” her voice rang small and feeble, but with a hidden coldness behind it. “Has any of you ever been beaten and raped?”. She noticed how their eyes widened and their postures tensed and an irrational urge to hurt them all rose inside her. “Have you ever been whipped and beaten within inches of your life? Bent over a crate and raped till you screamed? Don’t tell me to take things easy; don’t tell me to think of my babies. My babies and Fenris is all I think about. Not my comfort, not my sleep, not my nice, comfy bed. Now get up,” she barked, picking her sword up, “and MOVE, people, or Maker be my witness, I will leave you all behind.”

With long-suffering sighs, and guilty expressions that everyone except Merrill tried their best to hide, they followed her, digging into their packs for something to eat.

Hawke paid them no attention. She had broken down more than enough for one lifetime, and she had no intention of ever being weak and pathetic in front of her friends again. She was a soldier, a warrior, dammed, and she had better start behaving like one. Thinking of what Fenris would think about her pregnancy, staying up all night with scenarios of him telling her that he hated both her and her babies, having him turn his back on her for one more time, all these things did nothing but make her less effective. She had to keep her eyes on the objective here, and worry about the consequences later. And the one real, important objective here was the only thing that mattered: save Fenris.

It was starting to become an obsession with her, a mantra that kept repeating itself in her head. She had asked herself why it was so important to her to save him, why was it that she still cared for him after the way he had hurt her, after the way they had both done their best to hurt each other, but she came up short. It was more than the fact that he had been the first man she had loved, the first that she had given herself to. It was much more than the fact that there was still a small place in her heart aching for him. It was much more than that.

Fenris was _hers_ , one of her people, and damn her to the furthest, darkest, most forsaken corner of the Void, but nobody was ever taking one of hers away from her again.

She had lost enough. She wasn’t losing him too, not to Sebastian’s jilted ego. She gnashed her teeth together at the thought that Fenris was probably suffering because she had returned Sebastian’s ring to him. But damn that arrogant Prince, marriage proposals were denied every day; you didn't go around kidnapping people because you thought they were the reason behind being rejected!

She sighed and rubbed her forehead. What a mess. What a horrible mess. Somehow, they had managed to get caught up in a horribly twisted love triangle: she loved Fenris; Sebastian loved her, or thought he did; Fenris loved no one, not even himself. She was carrying the children of the man that she had agreed to marry after the man she loved had broken her heart. And the man she was going to marry now hated her and was holding captive the man she loved, who didn't love her, never had and never would.

Maker, she was getting a headache.

* * *

“This place reeks,” Fenris heard a voice, thick with disgust, but his eyes refused to obey him and open up. His body was still racked by waves of intense agony, although the mage had already been in his cell twice and had done whatever he could about his burned hands and bleeding back. A blurry voice from the further recess of his mind spoke up to inform him that he knew that accent, but he couldn’t force his body to respond, or his mind to from coherent thoughts. All he knew was pain, blanketing his consciousness like a dark, surging wave.

It was only natural that the room stunk. He had thrown up more times than he could count, until his empty stomach heaved nothing but bile and gastric fluids.  He had been in too much pain to feel shame or worry about the fact that at some point he must have relieved himself in his clothes, and now the acrid smell of his urine, his vomit and the sickening, rotting smell of old blood created a cocktail sure to make anyone gag.

He was in so much pain, he didn't care anymore.

“Get him cleaned up,” a boot nudged his side, “and then bring him to me. I want to talk to him.”

“My Lord. Isn’t that damgerous?”

A little chuckle. Then another, not so gentle ‘nudge’ by that booted foot. “Do as I say. After all, Fenris and I,” another kick, “are old friends.”

Then the clang of the iron door opening and slamming shut on its hinges.

Darkness followed.

The bucketfuls of chilling cold water were a welcomed shock to the system, finally dispersing the stupor that had been clouding his brain. His body still refused to obey him, though, so he stayed limp as a rag doll as the guards undressed him and cleaned him up, mortification filling every corner of his soul at how weak and helpless he was.

If Hawke could only see him now...She’d be disgusted at him, at the way he had given up, the way he had allowed pain to render him into a helpless, pathetic husk of the man she had come to respect as a fellow warrior and comrade. He gritted his teeth against the offensive, teasing remarks of the guards, who were commending on his markings and how lithe and slim he was, “like a girl” as one of them had remarked with a leering, lascivious smirk. He resisted the urge to thank whatever gods there were that he hadn’t been raped yet. It would be like challenging fate.

So he gritted his teeth, closed his eyes, and endured. That was all he could do.

After what seemed like hours, he was finally dressed and the guards propped him up on his legs, only to burst into laughter at the way he collapsed, his limbs unable to support him. They did it again, just for kicks, and this time he had to gather up all the strength and will that had been left in him to avoid screaming as he instinctively put his hands forward to stem his fall, making his roughly bandaged hands collide with the floor.

He hissed, instead, the intense pain blackening his brain out for a few seconds, laughter echoing around him.

“Leave him be!” a rough voice commanded and he opened his eyes to see a face he knew and had come to hate: his torturer, that burly, broad shouldered man, with the cold grey eyes that had caused him such pain without even blinking, with an impassionate, remote expression on his face, as if he had been cutting up a piece of meat.

The guards hurried to comply, and the man slipped his hands under Fenris’ armpits, helping him to his feet, and keeping him steady until the elf seemed to be able to support his own weight.

“Elf. The master wants to see you.”

Hate flooded Fenris’ heart, tightened his body, and made his knees stop wobbling. His mind eagerly supplied all the information it had gathered while he was too racked by pain to pay attention and antipathy rose inside him, turned into hate, and then to rage.

Sebastian had done this to him. Sebastian, a man he had once called a comrade. A man he had once grudgingly respected. A man he had spilt blood next to, sat at the same table with, shared drinks and stories with. The fucking Prince. The man who had taken Hawke from him; as if that hadn’t been enough, as if that hadn’t been torture enough.

Why, damn it?

He had Hawke, Fenris had lost. Why had he captured him, why had he been tortured? How had the Sebastian he knew, the one that was filled with compassion and decency, come to hold a man against his will and torture him like the worst criminal, while he knew he had done him no wrong?

Unless it was...no. That couldn’t be. She wouldn’t. She never would. He had hurt her, yes, but she would never ask Sebastian to...no. Not his Hawke. Not the woman that had bared her heart to him, not the woman that had allowed her tough facade to crack in front of him, who had allowed herself to cry in his arms. Not the woman whose eyes had looked at him with pain, with despair. No. Hawke would never get her revenge like this, no matter how much he had hurt her, and he had, Maker, he had.

The man, his torturer, shot him a puzzled look as his step faltered, his eyes widened and then flooded with moisture. The elf was whiter than a sheet, a thought behind those stoic green eyes obviously shaking him to the core. He grabbed one of his biceps and then led him to a room at the end of a corridor.

The door closed behind the elf, but the puzzled expression on the torturer’s face didn't fade. He battled with himself for a few seconds, and then, with a weary sigh, he pressed his ear against the door, eagerly eavesdropping as the Prince and the elf started talking.

“Ahhh...Fenris. Welcome,” Sebastian greeted Fenris as if talking to a guest, not to a man that had been held in the dungeons and tortured to near death. He motioned to the mage behind him as he saw the rage and hatred fill the elf’s eyes and chuckled merrily.

“Before we talk...my friend,” he sneered and watched in glee as the elf’s body started trembling with rage at the title, “let me remind you that you are still leashed like the dog you are. One wrong move and my mage here will bring you to your knees.”

Fenris’ gaze fixed on the mage, who was clearly anxious, fidgeting nervously in place and his eyes narrowed as he contemplated how to best surprise the inexperienced mage and find a moment, just a moment, it was enough, to gain the upper hand.

“Don’t even think about it, Fenris.”

He turned his eyes to Sebastian, and again his eyes narrowed. The Prince was holding a small crossbow cocked and ready, steadily aimed at his heart.

The two men stared at each other for what seemed like centuries, one with cold, furious anger and the other with a smug, cold sense of superiority.

“What in the Void happened to you, Sebastian?” Fenris spat in the end, a small tinge of hurt evident in his voice, buried underneath the rage and the rightful indignation. “We were friends.”

Sebastian started at the question.

“We fought side by side. We drank side by side. You had even asked me to come back and help you reclaim your damned throne. You were just,” he spat the word, clearly insinuating Sebastian was nothing of the sort anymore, “and righteous. What the _fuck_ happened to you?” 

Sebastian looked to the side for just a second, a small trace of guilt and uncertainty crossing his features, before they hardened once more.

“You dared take what was mine, you dared sully her with your touch. And then you rejected her. You hurt her. My future bride, the woman that was destined to be mine.”

Fenris watched as the Prince’s knuckles turned to white, his features distorted with hate, and realised, with a small start of surprise, that Sebastian had used past tense; so that meant that Hawke was not his anymore.

“She left you,” he mumbled, shocked, the words escaping him unintentionally.

Sebastian’s face distorted with hate even more, humiliation adding to the mix of anger and guilt.

“She is carrying my heirs,” he tossed to the elf, and watched in glee as his eyes grew even wider and he visibly started shaking before he made the effort, admirable, he had to admit that, to control himself.

Fenris drew a few deep breaths, held them for a few heartbeats, willed his heart to slow down. A rusty knife had embedded itself into his gut, and now it was twisting around, shredding his insides with blinding, hot pain. The image of Hawke round with the babies – _wait, wait, babies? There were two?_ \- of his tormentor was too much for him to take and he lowered the head he had been determined to hold proudly up during his interview with the Prince.

The very image that had sustained him for so long, carried him through endless hours of pain and despair, the only beacon on his darkness; it was gone. It was destroyed, and it left his mind wide open, vulnerable, his soul bleeding. The last of the will to fight fled with the slowly fading dream of Hawke and him someday being together, that image of them in a small cottage together, a half-elven child on her lap;

Sebastian saw the elf’s white head lower, watch his shoulders slump. He saw the air of despair emit from him in waves. A wolfish smile spread on his face; the elf was finally broken.  He ignored the small voice inside him was whispering that this was not what he had wanted, and pushed it resolutely away. The elf had to pay. He had won the heart of the woman that was rightfully Sebastian’s, the heart of the woman that had his heirs in her belly. He had to pay. 

He nodded to the mage and he opened the door and called for a guard to escort Fenris back to his cell. He went meekly, his head still bowed, and Sebastian watched from the door.

He had won. He had broken his adversary. There was a Tevinter ship sailing towards the Free Marches to pick the elf up. His master had been more than thrilled that ‘his pet’ was going to return to his ownership.

Sebastian should be feeling vindicated, he should be feeling triumphant. Victorious. He should be feeling satisfied, finally appeased.

Instead he was feeling...hollow.

* * *

_We trudged up and down that mountain for days, lost like children in a storm, damn that Prince and his mansion. Where had he built that thing, underground? We would probably still be up there, if it weren’t for Angus._

_And who might Angus be, I hear you all asking._

_Angus was a man that nearly got his guts spilled to the ground, that’s who. He approached us in the middle of the night, calmly declared he was in Sebastian’s employ and told us that if we were there to help a certain white-haired elf, he would lead us to him._

_Of course Hawke started questioning him, and soon the question of how he knew Fenris came up. The damned fool replied he was Sebastian’s torturer._

_Have you ever seen a dragon defending her young? A she-wolf standing over her injured mate?_

_Nothing compared to Hawke._

_She nearly took the man’s head off, she would have killed him with her bare hands and nails if we’d let her. It took Aveline’s strength, Anders’ sleeping spell and one of Merrill’s vines to keep her down. I swear the man had some balls of steel not to have shitted in his pants at the sight of her rage._

_When she calmed down, she bid the man talk and we just all stood there, hearing about whippings and beatings and racks and –Maker! - hands dipped in hot oil. Anders turned around and threw up at the description of the condition of the elf’s hands, Merrill started sobbing and Aveline punched a tree hard enough to nearly crack her fingers._

_I watched Hawke. I watched fearing she would have enough murdering fit or that she would break down. She was trembling like a leaf, but she kept calm, she kept strong, she kept herself together. I was so proud of her._

_She moaned, a pained, breathless sound when she heard about his hands, and she closed her eyes, dangerously pale, but that was it._

_My Hawke, my strong, capable, fearless Hawke. There will never be another woman like her, I swear._

_Oh, and guess what? The damned mansion was not build underground, but the entrance to the hidden valley it was built in WAS underground. There was a whole damned underground system of tunnels we had to go through and good thing that Angus guy was with us because the thing was like a labyrinth._

_There were even spiders. Shit, I hate spiders, have I told you?_

_Starkhaven architecture. Bah!_


	32. Chapter 32

The tension in the small chamber was palpable, thick enough to cut with a knife. Varric, usually so unruffled and cool, felt like screaming to break it; or fidgeting in spot like a bored five-year-old.

The small fire was all they had dared light, so close to the entrance as they were, and only after Angus that knew these passage-ways well had assured them it would not be noticed as there were ventilation shafts dug into the cave that would lead the smoke to the other side of the solid wall of stone behind which the estate was hidden.

Said man, Angus, was now sitting on the opposite side of the fire, locked into a staring match with a furious, glaring Hawke. Varric had to hand it to the man; he was clever enough not to take his eyes off Hawke for a single second, knowing full well that the woman’s temper was hanging by a thread.

Varric darted a look to Hawke, to the furious glint of rage in her feline eyes and a shiver run down his spine. The other members of the group, all still wary of their unexpected guide, were also aware of the fact that one wrong move, one wrong word from the man could set Hawke off, and they would have to physically restrain her again. Heck, he could yawn the wrong way, and that could be the only reason Hawke would need to kill him, gut him like a fish.

But he was clever; he neither moved or blinked, or fidgeted under her flinty gaze, meeting her eyes with his own steely grey ones.

And the tension kept rising, making everyone but the two locked in the stare-down decidedly more uncomfortable as every minute ticked by, until Merrill cleared her throat.

“So Angus, isn’t it? What is being a torturer like?”

Varric slapped his hand over his face and Anders groaned. “Oh, Merrill...” Aveline muttered.

Hawke tensed and her eyes glinted even more.

“Yes, pray tell,” her voice was cold and sarcastic, “what's it like being a torturer? What does it feel like making innocents suffer?”

“I don’t enjoy me job,” Angus replied in his deep, heavy Starkhaven burr, “but it has to be done. I don’t do innocents.”

“What would you call Fenris, then?”

The burly man displayed he first sign of temper at that moment. “Do ye think I am proud of what I did? I am an Adrastian! I believe in the Maker, I live by the Chant. May He have mercy on my soul, I didnae know! How was I supposed te know? I got me orders and I follow’d them!”

He looked around the fire at the disbelieving looks the tall mage and the red-haired warrior were sending them and the wide-eyed little elf that was so confused by his words. The dwarf was looking at the dark-haired woman with a look of awe and he turned to her too, then gasped as he saw the tears that were slipping down her face.

“Has Sebastian really changed so much?” she asked, pain making her voice tremble. “Has he really become such a monster? He was a good man! I can't believe...”

“Believe it, lass,” the torturer finally let himself relax. “There were rumours, horrible tales flying around, if ye get me meaning, before that lad was sent to the Chantry. I am old enough te remember.”

Anders raised his head.

“He was a wild child, we know that...”

“Ney, serah. There were rumours of darker things, rumours of torture and rape, until his sire, may the Maker rest his soul, could take it no longer. He gave the lad te the Chantry, and he threw a hissy fit the likes of it you’d ne’er seen before. I was old enough to remember. He slew three guards trying to escape that day, and curs’d and spat and bit like a rabid animal.”

“But he seemed so happy, so peaceful, so content at the Chantry! There must be some mistake...” Aveline protested.

Ander’s eyes lit up.

“Ah, shit. How did I miss that? Ah, bugger! That explains everything!”

“What?” three voices asked in unison.

Anders sprang up and started pacing, too agitated to actually answer, and continued cursing.

“Fuck, I can’t believe I didn't see that, by Andraste’s ass! Stupid! Stupid! How...”

“Anders! Speak, now, or Maker be my witness, I’m sicking Bianca on you!” Varric interrupted his rant, the smooth sound of Bianca’s mechanism cocking a bolt echoing around the stone walls.

Anders collapsed near the fire again, and looked at them all, shock and disbelief making his eyes round as a dinner plates on his suddenly pale face.

“Valentalis.”

“Valen-what?”

“Damn, I missed all the signs; I can’t believe I call myself a healer...”

“ANDERS!”

The tall mage took a few breaths and then closed his eyes.

“In the old days, they thought mental illnesses were caused by the influence of the moon. The mages at the College of Cumberland were called to find a cure for a certain kind of mental illness, do you remember Kedler? The crazy guy that killed because demons told him to?”

“What does that have to do with Sebastian?”

“I’ll get to that. Be patient. So, the son of the Emperor of Orlais had come down with a curious affliction: violent temper tantrums, homicidal tendencies, hearing voices. After he had been examined and they found that there were no demons involved, they decided it must be a mental illness; the influence of the moon as you have it. The mages were called to find a cure, as I recall, as the boy’s behaviour escalated. He killed and raped servants, submitted them to unspeakable torture; nobody could do nothing to stop him because of his high station, until his father decided to throw him in a dungeon. Then the mages came up with a solution.”

He looked around the room again.

“Valentalis. _Cure of the moon_. A potent drug that removed any violent tendencies and made the victim meek and docile.”

The others all looked at each other.

“That doesn’t prove anything,” Aveline shrugged, but a chill had run down all their backs.

“That’s not all,” Anders was speaking abnormally quickly now, his eyes glistening with excitement. “The people that took it often exhibited what you could call a turn of faith; most of the times, they showed uncommon devotion to a higher cause. You know,” Anders paused and looked pointedly at Hawke, “like the Chantry.”

“Still doesn’t prove anything,” Aveline insisted. “Sebastian may really have had a change of heart. And the rumours Angus has told us of may well have been just that: rumours.”

“Okay,” Anders shot Aveline an annoyed look. “Let me see you disregard these, then. Those that take Valentalis cannot drink heavy alcohol. No more than a few sips. Their systems can't atke it, it revolts  them. They have virtually no sexual drive. Let me remind to you all, the numerous advances Isabela had made to Sebastian and had made no impression on him. Isabela, of all people. The mistress of seduction. And last but not least...people who take it become focused on a higher purpose, but might have flashes of rage and vindictiveness. Does Quin mercenray company ring a bell? ”

“I still say...”

“The Chantry has full control of the distribution of Valentalis, Aveline. They had us mages in the Tower produce the stuff, and use it to discipline Templars gone astray, or to quell the urges of new recruits. They slip it in the recruit’s food. That is no rumour. I had been taught to make that obnoxious thing since I was ten. It’s so hush-hush that only the highest ranking Grand Clerics know about it- maybe not even them.”

Heavy silence reigned.

“The Chantry dopes its recruits,” Angus mumbled. “I cannae believe that.”

“The Chantry does a lot of things it is not supposed to,” Anders huffed. “Take the way that mages are treated for example,...”

“Maker’s balls, Anders,” Hawke raised a hand. “I need to think. Not the rights of mages right now, I’m begging you, I can’t handle that.”

“None of us can,” Varric mumbled.

“Agreed.”

“Seconded.”

Angus looked around at the faces of these strange people, still reeling from what he had heard.

“I guess... I agree... too?” he hesitantly asked, and watched as the hopeful look on the mage’s face fell to be replaced by annoyance. The strange beardless dwarf chuckled then, and the mage stormed off, muttering to himself about stupid people not interested about the stupid plight of stupid mages at the stupid hands of the stupid Chantry.

 _Nice lad_ , Angus thought, _but a bit barmy._

 

* * *

Fenris had lost count of the days that had gone by since his confrontation with Sebastian. At least when he was being tortured, he’d had a pretty good idea of the passing of days. They used to heal him in the morning, feed him at noon and then beat him in the afternoon. It had a rhythm, a way to distinguish the time.

He laughed quietly at himself, sitting on the wet stone floor of his dark, gloomy cell, only a faint glimmer of torchlight coming through from under the door. Who would have thought he would look back on the torture with nostalgia? The only reason the door opened for now was for food, and for the mage to apply some cream to his burns; apparently he had been ordered to heal him as best as he could. Anders, though, he was not.

A million thoughts a minute raced through his mind; random bits of conversations, muddled memories, poetry. Songs. Bits of Varric’s tall tales. Extracts from that book he had nearly finished, the one Hawke ha...

No. No. Not Hawke. He couldn’t think about her, he just couldn’t. Not yet. Pain lanced through his heart and he slowly, deliberately squeezed his still throbbing fingers into fists. The searing pain made the one in his heart lessen and uncoil, made it diminish until it was nothing but a faint memory. The mental image of her smiling face, one hand over her huge belly, swollen with Sebastian’s babies, faded until it could no longer rip at his insides.

He drew some deep, steadying breaths, and uncurled his trembling fingers, coolly looking at the marred lyrium lines, the angry and swollen red skin. Another nail had dropped today; there were three left, all blackened and revolting. His fingers...he had liked his fingers, they had been long and elegant, perfect for strumming the strings of a lute, one of the few features of his he hadn’t detested. They resembled gnarled and charred sticks now, flesh falling off in chunks. He would never be able to use his sword again. He didn't even know if the lyrium lines could be activated; putting his fist through a living body’s chest had never been very agreeable with him, but it had been a weapon. It had often saved his life, and he had been grateful and oddly resentful of it, at the same time. He examined his skin more closely, the way the blistered skin was more irritated around the lyrium. He wondered for the hundredth time why the lines hadn’t burned. It would have been worth the pain, if he could shed his lyrium along with his charred skin, like a snake.

He was going back to Tevinter. A ship was coming, Danarius had actually sent a ship to retrieve him. He didn't know how to feel about it. A few days back, even beaten and bloody, he would have fought against the very idea like a cornered beast. Now...now, he was just...numb. He didn't have any fight left in him.

Damn him, they could do whatever they wanted with him.

He didn't care anymore.

* * *

Varric kicked the door to the study behind him closed and mounted Bianca on his back holster, scowling.

“Prince Charming isn’t here.”

Hawke wiped the blood off her sword on the heavy velvet curtains.

“He can run, but he can’t hide, Varric.”

Varric cocked his head and shot her a curious look. She had been eerily quiet as they had been hatching an attack strategy last night and even more so since then. She had been a force of nature as they had stormed the estate, a terrible and wonderful sight to behold, beautiful in her anger, merciless, effective. She had hacked through guards and servants alike, making her way towards the back where Angus had told her Sebastian’s study was. Varric had had no doubt; she’d been determined to kill the Prince.

“What if what Anders said is true? If the Sebastian we knew was just a doped little Chantry Boy, and the real Sebastian was this...psycho? Will you still kill him?”

He hand went to her belly.

“If what Anders is true, then yes, he _has_ to die. If not...he has to die again. Leave it be Varric. He’s dead no matter which way you look at it.”

“He is the father of your babies.”

“Didn't you hear?” a rare smile lit up her face. “That is either Donnic or his friend.”

A chuckle answered her and then they heard Angus’ voice from the doorstep.

“The dungeon is down this way.”

Hawke paled and Varric laid a comforting hand on her elbow.

“He will be alright. We have Anders. You know, go, go healing hands Anders? The wonder-boy healer? He’s going to fix that elf of yours in no time.”

Hawke drew in a shuddering breath.

“I know. It’s the other damage I’m afraid of...who will heal him of _that_ , Varric?”

“You mean my immense wit won’t be enough?” he brought his hand to his heart in a theatrical gesture. “You wound me, Hawke, there goes my poor heart!”

She laughed a little, although Varric noticed her legs were trembling badly enough for her metal greaves to make that silly clanking noise.

He sighed.

“But to answer your previous question, Hawke,” he said, for once his voice deadly serious, “the only one that can help him heal...well...is you.”

She turned back to look at him and she sent him another small, sad smile.

“I hope so, Varric.”

* * *

Fenris heard noises from outside the door, and faint interest made him raise his head; clanking noises, like that of armoured feet, then the key in the lock turning. He squinted as always, the light from the torch in the hallway too bright for his eyes now, and waited patiently for the mage to come in; instead he heard a voice saying his name.

“Fenris?”

There was a sob in that voice, and he realised with a jolt that he was probably dreaming. He shook his head, panic rising inside him. It was like those dreams he had every night, Hawke turning up in his dark cell to torment him; she would start telling him how he deserved to be here any minute now, how he deserved to suffer for hurting her, how she hoped he would ‘rot and die’. His own words, the cruel words he had thrown in her face, repeated night after night. Maker he couldn’t take it anymore. He just couldn’t. How much more did he have to pay?

He closed his eyes, willing the dream away, willing the pain away.

Then a cool, tender hand was on his face, and he opened his eyes, to see her beautiful, luminous yellow eyes inches from his, shining with unshed tears like beacons in the night.

His heart stopped.

“You are here.”

“I am here.”

* * *

_Excuse me while I go cry in the corner, sentimental old fool of a dwarf that I am, but that scene still brings tears to my eyes._

_You wouldn’t believe what a pitiful sight that poor elf was. Bone thin, filthy, pale, beaten raw, his hands a huge red blistered mass of ...yucky things._

_Anders took one look at his hands, squeezed his lips into a thin line and fucking cried like a baby. Yeah. Believe it if you will. I was there and even I couldn’t believe it. Somewhere in there, though, among the tears and the snot and what have you, he managed an impressive healing job, almost draining himself to make the elf’s hands resemble hands again–not overcooked meat._

_Fenris kept his eyes on Hawke through the whole ordeal, hissing through clenched teeth just once, not moving, not even daring to breathe, as if one puff of air could dissolve her, as if one wrong breath and we would all be gone._

_His eyes widened when he spotted Angus behind her, and I guess that is when he realised that we were all really there, that it wasn’t a dream. He started shaking like a leaf, and Hawke had to grab hold of his arms and help him to his feet, telling him all the time that he was safe, that she was there, that she wouldn’t let anything else happen to him. Merrill was sniffling and helping Anders down the hall, while Aveline and Hawke supported Fenris and led him out of that wretched place._

_We were standing in the courtyard, waiting until his eyes had adjusted to the daylight once again, when we heard the sound of horse hooves approaching through the underground passageway._

_It was either Sebastian, returning to his estate, or Danarius’ people, because Angus had told us they had been expected any day. Or both._

_From the look on Hawke’s face though, it was clear. Whoever came through that tunnel was going to die._

_Bianca couldn’t wait._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm dreadully sorry for the delay, but on top of the chaos that is my life right now, I've been having computer issues.

Hawke’s blood was boiling. She wanted to kill something, she craved it with all her heart; she wanted to rip something to shreds with her bare teeth and nails, she wanted to wallow in the blood of her enemies. She had never been so angry in her life. The sight of Fenris in that dungeon would haunt her forever, would forever make her want to scream with rage. Angus had taken one look at her and had scrambled away; he had known from the look in her eyes that at that moment she had forgotten the excuse that he had been acting on somebody else’ orders. At that moment, she had only seen the monster that had tortured the man she loved and the usually unfazed man had felt a cold shiver of fear run down his spine, like an icy finger tracing down his vertebrae.

But for the sound of rushing horse hooves, Angus had been certain he was going to die.

The tension in the group mounted as the sound rushed towards them. Hawke wasted no time; she and Aveline tenderly lowered Fenris to the ground, behind them, near the guarded entrance to the house. A look and a nod later and Varric had assumed a position on the side balcony, gaining high ground on their approaching enemy. Anders flanked them, keeping near the warriors and the injured man at the back as well, and Merrill started casting spells and glyphs.

Tension rose higher with every clip-clop of the horse’s shoes on the stone of the underground passage, until Hawke, with her sword already drawn and her body almost vibrating with anger and barely-leashed bloodlust, felt the need to leap into the cave and kill whoever was approaching. She could only wish it would be Sebastian; in her fury the only thought in her mind was to dismember him. She could only hope it would be Tevinter magisters; she would hack them all to pieces with the greatest pleasure.

Finally the head of a huge sorrel horse broke into the light, and a hand reined the huge beast in, making it rear up and then start dancing in place. A small laugh echoed.

“Oh, sweet thing,” the laughing voice drawled suggestively, “did you miss me?”

* * *

Angus was the last one to sheathe his sword. Apparently, this weird group of people knew the newcomer, although the vibes he was getting were far from comforting, especially from that little terrifying curvy warrior lass. The woman had shot the newcomer a blistering look, and then returned to the side of her elf. The poor lad had blacked out again, and the mage boy was screaming out instructions for a flat surface and rags and bandages and clean water.

He shot the woman a look again, and took in her clothes, or lack thereof, for the first time. It had been a long time since he had blushed, but he felt his cheeks flaming up under his bushy beard. Andraste preserve them, she wore next to nothing. His wife was going to kill him for even looking at her. It was a good thing he had sent her and the bairns to her sister in Tantervale.

The woman sauntered over to the dwarf, and they exchanged a few hushed words and some hand signals he could not decipher, the dwarf looking at her with both annoyance and barely hidden amusement. The bubbly elf was practically hopping with excitement at their side, talking a mile a minute, while the tall, red-haired warrior was mumbling a few choice offensive words under her breath.

Angus sighed. He looked at the mage again, who was busy wrapping bandages around the elf’s hands, and debating with Hawke whether they should wait until they were at a more secure location to check the rest of his injuries. Knowing full well what these injuries were and how they had been inflicted, he turned away and took a few deep breaths. He was  not a cruel man by nature, and he had honestly believed his job was a necessary one; whenever he had been called to act as an executioner, he had made sure to offer the condemned a clean, swift death, to not prolong their agony. He had never taken pleasure in the interrogation process and he honestly despised using torture. However, it was a job, one that put food on his children’s table, Maker bless them, and he prided in doing as best a job as he could, no matter what the job was, be it hunting, guarding, planting the fields...or torturing. He had learned to harden his heart and just get on with it.

But this lad, this elf. He had managed to slip under his guard, with his quiet dignity, his strength of will, with the way he had tried valiantly to withstand every that had been done to him. When he had found out the man had been innocent of any crime, something in Angus heart had clenched and protested. The lad was brave, and strong, a good man, and he had deserved nothing of what had happened to him. There was something crying out in him that he had not made amends yet. He looked to the far west, towards the direction of the little house in Tantervale where his wife and children were waiting for him, and then to the prone figure of the elf. He should leave, tell them he had done all he could to amend for his unwitting crime.

He was jerked out of his thoughts by the sight of the curvy warrior with the terrifying yellow eyes that had walked up to him without him realising. He started, suddenly afraid. He had promised himself not to let himself relax his guard around her; he was remorseful, not suicidal.

She gave him a searching, narrow-eyed look, that made him want to squirm and fidget; it took a lot of self-control not to.

“About Fenris...” she started and he nodded, understanding. “Did you...? Don’t lie to me, because I will hunt you down and skin you alive if you do. Did any of you _touch_ him?”

Angus shook his head. “The Master want’d us to, but I donnae condone rape.”

Hawke drew a deep, shuddering breath.

“You have no idea how close to dying you just got.”

And she turned away, walking briskly to the side of the elf again, while the torturer behind her was heaving a huge sigh of relief.

“I will be coming with you,” he shouted behind her back, making the dark-haired warrior stop and look back at him with surprise in her eyes. “Me debt hasnae yet been repaid. The elf is my new Master now, until _he_ feels I have atoned for me sin.”

“I don’t think Fenris will appreciate having you around,” the red-haired woman replied for Hawke, to which Angus just shrugged. “Besides,” she continued “don’t you have a family to look after?”

Hawke’s eyes clashed with the torturer’s and they looked at each other for a few long seconds.

“I am his servant until he says otherwise.” Angus sealed his fate.

Hawke just nodded.

Nobody knew more about the need to atone more than her, after all.

* * *

 Later that night, after they had put a good distance between them and the estate, and camp had been set up and secured, Isabela ambled next to Hawke and took a seat next to her.

“Speak,” she just said, not even taking her eyes of the flames dancing in the small camp fire.

“I returned to Kirkwall to apologise,” Isabela started, “and found you all gone. I asked around...don’t give me that look Hawke,” she huffed at the side-ways contemptuous look Hawke had momentarily shot her. “This is all your doing. Feelings, and guilt...bah. I wouldn’t have looked behind once, if it weren’t for your influence, you goody-two -shoes. I would have run with the tome and laughed while doing it.”

“Didn't you?”

“I didn't laugh, that’s for sure. I felt awful about it. I...I am sorry, Hawke.”

She nodded that the apology was accepted, and waved for her to continue.

“Once I reached Starkhaven, I found out you had left the previous day,” Isabela sighed. “I have a few contacts in the city, but you wouldn’t believe what I had to do to find out where you had gone.”

“You probably slept with half the city guard,” Aveline tossed, and Isabela just laughed.

“Okay, so you would believe what I had to do, then. Had fun doing it, too, you should try it sometime, captain Man Hands.”

Aveline muttered a choked ‘whore’ under her breath and then got up to relieve Varric and take her turn guarding the camp.

Isabela chucked behind her back and then turned to Hawke again. “So, I managed to slip into the Castle, and I found maps and information about this place. I also found these,” she said and tossed a couple of leather bound books into Hawke’s lap. “They are Sebastian’s father’s journals. I think you will find what they say very interesting. Our little Choir Boy was a bad, bad boy, Hawke. Remember how I had wished I had met him back then?”

Hawke nodded yes, eyeing the books as if they could burn her. Isabela shuddered, an unfamiliar look of revulsion on her face.

“I take it back.”

 

* * *

Fenris woke up in the darkness again, only a faint light illuminating the oppressive weight of his solitude. So it was a dream, he thought, and tears sprang to his eyes, before he had the chance to hold them back. He clenched his hands again, a distressed sound escaping him. Maker, it was a dream. His own mind was punishing him in the cruellest way possible.

A few things happened at once then.

He felt a cool breeze of fresh air brush over the wetness on his cheeks, a breeze that had no place in a dungeon. A cool cloth landed on his face, gently wiping away the shameful evidence of his tears and the sweat that had pearled on his brow. And a tender, soft voice, _her voice_ , crooned his name.

 “Fenris, shhh...I am here.”

He closed his eyes again, instantly relieved. It had not been a dream, she was really here. She was really here. Hawke had come for him; even if she never forgave him, even if she now hated him, even if she was indeed pregnant with another man’s babies, she had come for him, ending his torment, rescuing him.

For now, it was enough to soothe his soul.

Anders placed his hand on Fenris head.

“He has a fever. Damn it to the Void, I thought I had taken care of the infection. But I think it’s in his blood now. This might get dodgy.”

Hawke sighed and run her fingers down his face.

“Anders...please...”

The blond healer drew a deep breath and then his shoulders squared. “I promise you Hawke, I will do my best. I may not like him, Maker, who am I kidding, I hate his fucking guts, but I will not let him die.” He grasped on of Hawke’s trembling hands. “I will not. I will kill myself to heal him if I must. For you, only for you.”

Hawke gave him a grateful, tremulous smile and a small kiss to the cheek. “Oh, Anders... What would I have done without you?”

He smiled ruefully. “You’d probably be pushing up daisies, Hawke.”

She smiled sadly and then did something she had never done before; she embraced him with all her strength, and kissed him full on the lips, making him gasp in surprise.  Before he had a chance to react, she had withdrawn and was once again wiping the sweat off the elf’s brow.

“I love you Anders,” she smiled up at him. “It may not be the way you want me to, but never forget it: I love you.”

 A voice rang out from one of the bedrolls around the fire.

“And I love you all, too, and now that we’re all lovey-dovey and cuddly, let’s just shut the fuck up and sleep. Bianca needs her beauty nap.”

“What the dwarf said,” Aveline mumbled too, and Merrill chuckled.

“Goodnight, Hawke, Anders,” she started and Isabela groaned. “You are not starting the goodnight ritual again, Merrill, for fuck’s sake. I am not saying goodnight to the trees and the stars and the fucking squirrels again. Sleep, or I’ll find other uses for that cute little mouth of yours.”

Silence reigned, only broken by Anders’ effort to suppress his chuckles.

But when Angus’ puzzle voice muttered from the perimeter of the camp where he was standing guard, “nice people, but barmy, the lot of you,” they all broke out laughing.

Their laughter was like a long-awaited breaking of the tension that had been weighing on all their souls and shoulders all these days, healing them, making the squabbles and disagreements of the previous days fade away. Though Fenris was still ill, and they were all alone in the wilderness, and probably Sebastian would be hot on their tails very soon, hope and an overwhelming feeling of rightness settled on all their hearts like a warm, fluffy blanket.

They were a family again. A dysfunctional, weird, brimming with issues family, but a family nonetheless.

* * *

_We were back in Kirkwall in a few days, thank the Makers for Isabela and her ‘borrowed’ little ship. A boat really, if we are being honest with each other, although I would dare anyone to say that in front of the Rivaini._

_Fenris was burning up all the way back to the city, and he had to be carried. Angus had carried him without a single little complaint, nearly all the way; the man was as big as a brick wall, and just as tough. Anders had applied regular healings, trying to keep the infection that was making him burn up at bay. Without supplies and without enough lyrium potions and rest for himself to replenish his strength, though, he looked just as haggard as the elf by the time we were crossing the threshold of Hawke’s mansion._

_Once there, Hawke had barked for hot water and a bath and had taken it on herself to bathe him only accepting Oranna’s help; the bath water had to be changed about three times, the elf was that filthy. I don’t know if Fenris had regained his consciousness at any time during the bath, but he had briefly come to while Anders applied salve and bandages to the half-healed gashes on his back. I know that because Anders had the most comical look of surprise on his face afterwards and when I had asked him what was wrong he had mumbled that the elf had thanked him._

_“He said thank you...” he was mumbling again and again. “He said thank you, I can’t fucking believe it. The elf thanked me...somebody alert the Chantry.”_

_Funny stuff._

_I had gone in to check up on them and take my leave, and I saw Hawke stroking his now white again hair; it had been so grimy when we had rescued him it had practically looked grey._

_He had been thrashing and mumbling in his sleep and she had tears running down her face._

_‘Not true...” he was sighing, “not true...not his children. Not his. Hawke. No. It’s a lie.”_

_I saw the look of despair on her face as her hand had gone to cradle the barely noticeable little bump of her belly. I saw how she bit her lip not to cry. I saw how her hand had clutched the sheets on the bed._

_And I remember thinking to myself that there was no way, no way in the void, he would be able to accept her unborn babies._

_I also remember saying nug shit out loud and Hawke nodding._

_“Precisely,” she had said._


	34. Chapter 34

Fenris opened his eyes, with some difficulty, fully expecting to find himself in a dark dungeon; instead, the first thing he saw was a rich canopy over his head. He heard birds chirping outside the window and felt the sinfully soft silk sheets under his body.

But what really made him realise he was not a prisoner anymore was the absence of pain. He raised his hands to his face, and his heart nearly stopped in shock to see the bandages covering them. If he was not mistaken, this was the best quality linen and he could detect the faint medicinal scent of expensive herbs.

So it wasn’t a dream, he thought and closed his eyes. Seeing Hawke, being rescued, being healed; it hadn’t been a sick game his own mind had played on him. Hawke had really come for him.

He turned to the side, and there Hawke was, slumped on an armchair, sleeping. His breath caught. Maker, she was such a beautiful sight. He had never expected to see her again and now he drank in her form, the peacefulness and serenity on her face as she slept.

As if she had somehow known he was watching her, her eyelashes flickered and then her luminous feline eyes slowly opened. She looked at him for a few long minutes and then she smiled. Fenris’ breath caught.

That smile; it was rare, it was beautiful, it was all for him.

“Fenris,” she said. “You’re awake.”

He nodded. He could not speak, the lump in his throat making it difficult to even breathe. Maker. She was here. _He_ was here. They were both here, alive, well, free. His eyes closed on a sigh of gratitude.

“I’ll go fetch Anders,” she whispered, “and something for you to eat. You look like a skeleton.”

Fenris’ eyes opened to watch her go, his voice still lost. What was he expected to say, anyway? What words could convey how grateful, how happy he was at being out of that place? What words could even start to ask for her forgiveness?

Anders walked in and Fenris’ eyes narrowed, before he remembered that the mage had nearly crippled himself trying to heal him.

“Hold out your hands,” the healer softly said, his face unreadable. “I need to change your bandages.”

Fenris closed his eyes again, as Anders unwrapped the bandages with strange tenderness. Anders might have been a great many things that Fenris despised, but one had to hand it to the damned mage: he was a good healer, one of the best, if not _the_ best. Still, Fenris was afraid to look at his hands, fearing that even Anders’ impressive talent might not have been enough to fix the damage.

“Can you flex your fingers?” Anders asked, turning his hands around, examining the skin with cool professionalism. He looked at the elf as he nodded yes and then demonstrated, pleased with the increased flexibility. “Bend them?” Fenris held his breath as he did, expecting the pain- but none came.

His eyes flew open in surprise and he saw his fingers for the first time. The skin was still swollen and irritated, but they resembled fingers again, not charred sticks. He turned his hands around, admiring Anders’ handiwork. Even the lyrium lines seemed to have straightened out.

Anders was still turning his hands this way and that way, humming softly under his breath. H then sighed and reached for a jar of medicinal cream on the nightstand.

“I need to apply this, and then redress your hands. Is that okay?”

Fenris nodded.

 “You did a fine job, mage,” he carefully said, his voice still hoarse after having gone unused for so many days. Anders gave him a surprised look then focused on applying the cream and re-doing the bandages. “How long have I...?”

“Six weeks...” Anders sighed. “We hadn’t realised what had happened at first...we thought you had left the city.”

Fenris nodded again, his throat closed off.  

“Hawke...”

“Hawke was frantic,” Anders spread the cream around with a feather light touch. He raised his eyes to the elf for the briefest of moments, menace hardly veiled in them. “Don’t you dare start blaming her for all this mess, you hear me? She’s blamed herself enough as it is.”

Fenris’ eyebrows scrounged up.

“Why would I...she blames herself? Why?”

Anders started refastening the bandages. “She thinks that if she hadn’t accepted Sebastian’s proposal none of this would have happened.”

“I pushed her to that...” Fenris looked away. “Maker, the things I said to her!”

An eyebrow rose on Anders face and then the healer sighed. He left the cream on the side, with slow, measured movements, as if he was stalling, trying to find the words to say what he had to say.

“I heard you...in your sleep, the other night.” His eyes rose to meet Fenris’ and the elf was shocked to see compassion brimming in them. “She is indeed pregnant, Fenris. The damned Prince...there is much you don’t know, but he did get her pregnant. She broke up with him soon after you went missing.”

Fenris clenched his teeth. The pain that was stabbing his heart was worse than any torture, worse than any beating or lashing, worse than bones breaking and fingers being charred.

“She is terrified of how you will react. She’s convinced you will hate her.”

Did he? No. He couldn’t. But the thought of seeing her get round with someone else’s children, and worse of all, with the children of the man that had snatched him from his home, thrown him in a dark dungeon and tortured him without rhyme or reason was unbearable.

Panic rose inside him, and the desire to flee, to escape, to find a dark place to hide. It was like a dark, intense wave that rose over his head, threatening to engulf him. His heartbeat picked up, his body started shaking. A sound was building in his chest, and he bit down on his lip as it increased in volume; he wasn’t certain if it could come out as a scream or a whimper, a pathetic cry.

Anders realised the elf’s distress, and instead for pressing him for an answer, he tightened his lips and gathered up his supplies. He left that room as if all the demons in the Fade were after him. He didn't like Fenris; some of the time, if he was being honest with himself, he even hated the elf, hated him with all his heart, despised him enough to wish he would just die. But there was also a small, hidden corner in his heart that grudgingly respected him, his strength, his conviction, even if it was against everything he ever believed in.

Somewhere deep inside him, he knew that if he had been through half the elf had gone through in his life, he would probably never have been able to get over it. Just the thought that the elf was stronger than him, more resilient, made his dislike even worse. And he felt guilty about it, because it revealed a side of him that was petty and spiteful and not at all like the man he thought he was.

He met up with Hawke as he was going down the stairs and she looked deep into his eyes, silently asking him how his talk with Fenris had gone.

He gave her a fake, feeble smile and she paled and one hand went to her belly.

Anders put a hand on her shoulder, but found no words of comfort to offer her.

* * *

Fenris woke up in the middle of the night, his whole body racked by a nightmare. In his dream, he was back in that dark dungeon, being tortured to near death, and Sebastian and Hawke were watching. She was heavily pregnant, and sitting next to Sebastian who had a hand on her belly and a smug smile on his face.

She had been laughing in his dream, laughing as they had stripped him down and beat him up and then raped him. Her laughter was still echoing in his ears as he woke with a gasp and jerked out of the bed, trembling from head to toe.

The door flew open and a man came in. Still disoriented from his dream, his heart still thumping in his chest and the sound of that cruel, heartless laughter ringing in his ears, he was unable to understand what the man was saying; all he focused on was that face, the face of the man that had been torturing him just a few seconds ago.

Reality and dream blended, and he gasped, stumbled on his still weak legs, and his markings flared. He screamed something to the man, who was holding his hands out in surrender, urgently saying something that he couldn’t understand. Panic gripped him, irrational, terrifying fear, and he grabbed whatever he found in front of him to defend himself; the glass pitcher at the nightstand. He tossed it to the man, the scrabbled to the other side of the bed, trembling like frightened animal.

Hawke rushed into the room a few seconds later, to find Angus frantically trying to calm Fenris down. The elf was curled up in a ball on the floor, rocking back and forth, shaking uncontrollably, his breath sawing. His eyes were glazed, lost in a waking nightmare. She tried to rush to him as a keening scream broke free from his mouth.

A hand stopped her as Anders drew her back.

“He’s having a panic attack. Nobody go near him. He’s dangerous right now.”

Varric, who had rushed in right behind them, rubbed the sleep from his eyes and looked to Angus with disdain.

“Really clever move, big guy,” he drawled sarcastically. “Takes the cake. Bravo.”

“I want thinking, I just heard him shout out and...”

“Get out!” Hawke whirled on him, fury in her eyes. “Get the fuck out of here!”

She rounded on Fenris, carefully, like you would approach a scared and wounded animal and just crooned to him, trying to reach that dark, scary place he was in with just her voice.

“Fenris,” she whispered. “It’s okay, I’m here. It will all be okay. Hush, now.”

Another shudder ran down Fenris body at the sound of her voice. The memory of her laughter in his dream was still too vivid for her gentle words to have any effect on him. He hid his head even deeper between his knees, and started rocking back and forth even faster, whimpering feebly.

“SNAP OUT OF IT!” Varric suddenly bellowed and Fenris froze in place, then his head came up.

“Va...Varric?” he stuttered and a sigh of relief choked out of his mouth.

“The one and only, Broody,” Varric gentled his voice, making a gesture towards the door to the others. Andes had to drag Hawke out, and she reluctantly followed, not taking her eyes off Fenris’ face, tears of anguish running down her cheeks. “Chest hair and all. Calm down. You’re making Bianca fidget,” they heard Varric say to Fenris with a calm, cheerful voice as they were going down the stairs. “Now, if you wanted a bedtime story, Broody, all you had to do was ask for one.”

* * *

_The next day dawned tense and awkward. When you are an emotionally walled-in porcupine of a man like  Fenris, having broken down so spectacularly because of a bad dream and the startling appearance of a hated face was the worst of disgraces. He felt humiliated, ashamed, mortified. Hawke had walked into the room and he had closed his eyes and turned his back, refusing to  talk to her, refusing to hear her explanation about why Angus was there, refusing to even acknowledge her._

_She was heartbroken, poor thing, because she had her own fears that were choking her up and this seemed like a dismissal of the worst kind. We tried to explain to her how ashamed the elf must have been feeling, but she refused to listen. She knew the reason why Fenris was not talking to her. He hated her. He blamed her for everything. He was right to blame her. It was all her fault._

_Oh, my poor, heartbroken Hawke._

_A day went by like that, and then Fenris called me into the room and asked to find him passage out of Kirkwall. He had to leave he had said, he had to spend some time on his own; he couldn’t stand being around people at that moment._

_Anders tried to convince Hawke that perhaps it was for the best, and just what Fenris needed at that instance; she had this blank look on her face, staring at the fire roaring in the fireplace like the answer to all life’s questions could be found there._

_She had dismissed Angus in the middle of the night, asked him in no gentle terms to leave her house; the man had sighed and accepted her decision. Or so it seemed._

_Fenris left two days later, still weak and skeletally thin, barely able to hold the weight of his sword on his back. I had booked him passage to Antiva, hoping that the warm climate and the carefree attitude of the country would help him._

_And secretly, I had booked passage for Angus as well, who had come to me and asked me to help him keep his oath by shadowing the elf and making sure he was safe._

_Thank the Maker for that._

_The day Fenris left, Hawke went back to that little beach on the Wounded Coast, Anders and Isabela hovering in the distance, and spent a night just gazing at the ocean. According to Anders, she didn’t say a word, didn't move, didn't even blink._

_When she came back in the morning, her eyes were dead._

_She stopped eating, to the point that Anders had to force food down her throat. She stopped talking to any of us, too, falling into a depression so deep, so acute, that we started fearing for her life, her sanity, and the life of her unborn children._

_Gossip raged. The Champion of Kirkwall was having a meltdown, and rumours ran amok, about her break up with Sebastian, her elven lover, the babies she was carrying. There were matters that needed her attention, the tension between mages and templars was growing, criminals roamed the streets._

_The grand Cleric arrived one day and they had locked themselves in Hawke’s study. When she left, she had tears in her eyes. I never learnt what they had discussed, but I imagine it had to do with Sebastian because a few days later, Elthina made a heartfelt sermon about believers having gone astray and the Chantry’ duty to correct their wily ways._

_I guess it was like a statement of solidarity towards Hawke._

_Two months passed like that and while she withered away, that little bump grew even more; and then one day, one of those babies gave a little fluttering nudge against her belly._

_And Hawke woke up._

 

 

 

 

 


	35. Chapter 35

She had barely eaten or spoken to anyone these past two months. All she did, day in, day out, was sit in that armchair, looking at the fireplace, an air of despair and defeat around her.

Anders would press her to eat until she relented, and swallowed down a few bites. They had all taken turns sitting up with her, trying in vain to cheer her up; she would sometimes spare a look, or a small humming sound to acknowledge their presence, but other than that, nothing. Not even Varric tall tales or Isabela’s friend fiction had managed to elicit a response. Merrill -sweet, gentle, naïve Merrill- was the one who had helped the most. During the dark, sad hours next to that fireplace, the cheerful blabbering of the elf sounded like a babbling brook, like a gentle stream chattering down a riverbed; it visibly made Hawke relax and even crack a shadow of a small smile.

No one knew what had been going through her mind, how a person so strong could finally have been defeated. It was strange, to her more than anyone, to what foe she had fallen after all. Not to rage, not to bitterness, not to bloodlust, but... to sorrow. Sadness had crept up to her, snuck into her heart when she hadn’t been watching. Hurt, yes, she could deal with hurt and pain and disappointment. She had been dealing with them all her life. She could deal with heartbreak; she could handle incapacitating, heart-rending pain. But this slow, soft sadness, this crippling sense of grief; she was defenceless against it and it was subtle enough that she hadn’t seen it coming, and she hadn’t been able to battle it. It overtook her like a tide, buried her alive, numbed her heart and mind and soul.

Anders had said it was delayed shock, the delayed emotional fallout of all that had happened during the past few months. Varric had said that was bullshit. The woman was heartbroken, couldn’t he see that? Aveline had raged and called Fenris names and promised to make necklaces with his eyes and balls. Isabela had proclaimed, again and again, that Fenris would come back. She just knew it.

And Hawke had just watched them as they talked about her as if she wasn’t even in the room, because truly, she wasn’t. Hawke had retreated behind a wall of sadness, a wall that had hemmed her in without her even realising it. She couldn’t spare any thoughts or energy to anything but that grief, that sad, forlorn voice whispering inside her.

Merrill was the one to have done the only practical thing, the only thing that had actually helped, even a little. She had taken up a lute, sat by her side, and tried her best to distract Hawke from that small weeping voice inside her that drowned everything else out.

But despite the elf’s best efforts that poisonous voice went on, and on, and on.

Fenris had left. She had risked her life and the life of her unborn children to save the only man she had ever loved and he had gone again.

Everybody she had ever loved left her. Again. And again. And again. And then once more, for good measure. Just to hammer that bleak message home: she was unlovable and would die alone.

Everything she touched crumbled into dust. Everything she touched turned not to gold but to ashes. She was cursed. Everything she loved withered and died.

On and on and on the voice mourned.

She wasn’t angry, she didn’t feel hurt. She didn’t rage at the unfairness of it all, she didn’t turn bitter and lash out to those around her.

She was just...sad. She sat there listening to the voice, and although a little part inside her was urging her to get up and fight it, she allowed it to drag her deeper and deeper into despair.

Until, one night, as she had been sitting there in that chair, she had felt a little nudge, a little fluttering sensation from inside her belly. It had been faint, barely there, and she had to let go off her unnatural concentration on her sadness to focus on it.

There. There it was again. A flutter. A little...something, moving inside her.

She had put both her hands on her belly and cried like a whipped child. Her daughters. Her little babies were reaching out to her, telling her that she wasn’t alone, that there was still somebody that needed her, two somebodies. Merrill, who had been sitting up with her, singing her elven songs, jerked out of the chair and tried to console her, talking a mile a minute, distressed that something she had said might have made her sad.

Hawke raised a hand to stop the blubbering elf.

“I’m fine, Merrill, don’t worry,” she said and Merrill gasped. Those were more words together than she had said for two months.

“Hawke?” she asked, confused. “You’re talking? Not that I’m complaining of course, I love it that you’re talking again, we have all been so worried about you...what do you mean you’re fine?”

A small smile started spreading on Hawke’s face, making Merrill gasp in surprise once more. Then realisation stuck: the way Hawke’s hands were clutched on her belly, the absent, radiant smile of a woman that was listening to something only she could hear, the slowly spreading look of awe and happiness.

Merrill might have been naive and a little ditzy at times, but stupid she was not. She realised what Hawke had just felt, and knew instinctively that it had been a wake-up call that Hawke had not been able to resist. _Everything will be okay now_. She smiled and let out of a sigh of relief. “I’ll get you something to eat,” she just said to Hawke and to herself she whispered “good job da’lens” as she was going out the door.

* * *

When Fenris first arrived in Antiva, the sheer noise and crowded streets had nearly undone him. There were people, people everywhere, elves, humans, dwarves, talking in that flowing, accented language, gesturing around, shouting. He’d felt overwhelmed, and nearly had another panic attack as one of the merchants in the busy port casually grasped his forearm to drag him to his stall.

Varric had given him a big bag full of coins and he managed to procure lodgings in a small farmhouse, days outside Antiva City. It was tiny, a rat hole of a house really, sitting on a plot of land that had long gone unused, only brambles and thorns now growing in what once must have been well-tilled soil.

The house itself was ramshackle, nearly falling down, in urgent need of repair, but the adjoining woods and the peacefulness of the countryside was like balm to his soul. The first thing he did when he arrived was to take a few deep breaths of the rich, fragrant air, and release it in a sigh of relief. When the landlord, counting his money, finally left, Fenris found a little isolated stream in the nearby woods, stripped down and washed himself with a vengeance, until he finally felt clean, the stench of sweat and fear gone at long last.

He refused to let himself think about what had happened those past few weeks; he refused to dwell on anything. He set up a rigorous routine for himself and stuck to it like a lifeline: a cold bath in the stream early in the morning, followed by hours of rigorous exercise. The lost flexibility in his fingers annoyed and frustrated him, at first, and so the weakened state of his muscles. The first time he tried to go through his stances the sword kept slipping through his fingers. His grasp was too weak to heft the huge greatsword up and even when he finally managed it, his muscles started trembling with the strain within minutes; but day after day, he got better at it.

Meditation usually went after the exercise, then another dip in the cold water, and then lunch; he had bought enough provisions in the city and whenever he felt like it, there was plenty of game in the forest. By the time he had eaten and cleaned up, his body was screaming for him to take a rest, especially since the blistering Antivan sun was by then too hot to do anything strenuous; he ignored it however, and went on. Soon, his skin was a golden tan again, and he had regained some of the muscle he had lost.

Anders’ cream did wonders for his burns, and he secretly thanked the healer for insisting on giving him a few jars before he had left. He did it grudgingly, swearing all the time, but he did say a few thanks to the Maker for Anders. Not that he would ever admit it, of course.

Hawke...he didn't think of.

He refused to think of her. Whenever her face came to his mind, he ruthlessly pushed it away.

It wasn’t time yet. Get better first, get stronger, get back to the warrior he had been. Then it would be time to think of her, but not before, lest he was reduced to a snivelling, whimpering idiot again.

His dreams disagreed, though.

He was woken bathed in cold sweat every single night, images of her swimming in his head. She was lost in a cold, wet fog, calling his name, crying out for him, tears running down her face; it was a blow to his soul every single time, making him want to shatter the peacefulness of the night howling like a wounded wolf. She turned to him every single night, her voice accusing him of being a coward, of abandoning her after she had gone through hell to find him and save him.

He would get up and run through the forest every night, until his legs nearly gave out on him and he stumbled back into the hut, falling into an exhausted, restless sleep. And still the dreams didn't let up.

Frustrated, exhausted physically, mentally and psychologically, he finally relented, and used the powder Anders had given him to make a sleeping potion. He didn't make it very strong, because he still wanted to be able to function should danger arise, but it was enough to at least help him get a few hours of undisturbed sleep.

It also meant that his senses were a bit dulled though, and so he failed to realise that there was somebody shadowing his every move.

It also meant that when a band of raiders snuck near his house one night, he woke up too late to defend himself.

Once more, he found himself held captive, waking up with a blade on his throat. The panic nearly crashed over him, threatening to engulf him, but then he growled like a wild animal, his markings flared, and he lunged towards the men holding him down, thrusting his arm through the chest of the one closest to him. The rest of the men, five of them in total, started shouting in alarm in Antivan, and then once of them managed to land a blow against the back of his head, the pommel of a sword making a sickening sound against his skull.

He went down, his eyes closing, but before he slipped into unconsciousness he thought he saw a man rush towards them through the open door, a burly, tall man, wielding a sword and a wickedly sharp dagger.

His last thought was that he knew that man, but he couldn’t remember who he was.

* * *

Angus banked the fire and shot another look at the elf. The lad had put on some weight since he had last seen him, and he looked stronger. His hands weren’t bandaged and the man was relieved to see that there were very few signs of the burns he himself had inflicted on the poor elf.

He cringed at the thought. It still bothered him immensely that he had inflicted such pain on an innocent man. The Chantry preached forgiveness, but that was one thing he could not easily forgive; he had served his master well, trusted him to be a pious, Maker respecting Lord. And he had made him torture and innocent man. For Angus, the gray lines of accountability didn't exist; the excuse that he was acting on somebody else’s order was not enough to assuage his guilt. Things were either black or white; you only tortured the guilty or your soul was compromised. It didn't matter who had given the order, not to Angus. He fully considered himself guilty of having wronged an innocent; it had been him doing the torture, so it was him that should be doing the penance.

A devout Andrastian, Angus knew all about the meaning of absolution, and that was why he was here, miles away from his wife and wee ones, in this blisteringly hot country, trying to absolve his sin.

The elf stirred, and Angus, reminded of the last time Fenris had seen him unexpectedly before him, rose up and went outside.

Once he heard the elf move about, he started talking. The sudden silence and the blue glow coming from inside him informed him the elf had realised who he was.

“Before ye start raging, elf,” he said, trying to keep his voice gentle, “I must tell ye this: I am sorry. I didnae know.”

Silence greeted his words. He left the hair on the back of his neck rise up. The elf could be deadly; he knew that. He had just seen him put his hand through a man’s chest and rip out his heart. If he wanted to kill him, he...

“Where are the thieves?”  A voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Took care of them. No worries.”

Silence again, heavy, oppressive silence.

“Did she send you?” Fenris finally asked.

Angus snorted. “Who? The scary lass? Hawke? She’d kill me if she knew I was within spitin’ distance of ye.”

“Who then?” Fenris appeared in the doorframe, still holding himself very guarded, and avoiding even looking at the torturer. “And why?”

Angus drew a deep breath. “Ye might want to sit down, elf. It’s a long story.”

Fenris nodded.

“I have all night.”

* * *

Aveline was looking at Varric and Anders with a look that was both sceptical and hopeful.

“She has really spoken to you? And eaten? I warn you both, this is no laughing matter.”

“Eaten?” Varric laughed. “That’s an understatement really. She nearly emptied the cellars. I’d make sure not to get to close to her, Red. You might find one of your arms being gnawed upon.”

She turned to Anders with a stern scowl. “You tell me. I can’t get a word in earnest out of this...this jester!”

Varric brought a hand to his chest. “I stand offended. My poor heart.”

Anders laughed and then nodded his head, his whole face beaming with happiness.

“Well, where is she now?”

Anders’ smile faded a bit. “She went to the Chantry, to talk to Elthina.”

* * *

Fenris rubbed the back of his neck. He was getting a headache. Of all the things he had expected, a contrite torturer wasn’t one of them. 

Hawke had tried to explain to him that day after...after he had made a complete and utter fool of himself, but he hadn’t listened, still in the throes of panic, fear and shame. She had told him that the torturer had helped them save him; that he had promised to be his indentured slave until he felt his debt had been repaid. But he had dismissed her words. Waking up after the dream he’d had, to see the torturer there in her home had been too much for his bewildered brain to take.

The man, Angus, was waiting for his reply, he realised with a jolt.

“I would say your debt to me has been fully repaid,” Fenris said. “You just saved my life.”

“Then I have yer forgiveness?”

“Fully, unequivocally and with no reservations. You may be on your way.”

“Uneq....what?”

Fenris smiled and the other man bristled. “Pffftt. Ye talk a fine speech, elf, but ye’re as dump as a rusty nail, ye hear?” He got up and started tidying up his things, putting them in his battered backpack, while mumbling all the time. “Letting that lass go. Blubbering idiot! She’s one of the kind, ye hear?” he shouted at Fenris, who had this blank look on his face, watching the other man as his ranting picked up in volume. “Ye’d still be rotting in that dungeon if it weren’t for her. She risked her life to come get ye! I heard the healer. She was bleeding all the time, she could lose her bairns any minute, and she came for ye!”

“She’s pregnant with the children of the man who ordered you to torture me.”

“So what? They’re hers. What does it matter who sired them? If that woman wanted me, I’d be willing to raise an ogre’s brood, mark me words now.”

Fenris raised his head and looked at the silvery moon above him, his face an unreadable mask. A million thoughts a mile raced through his head. Hawke- brave, fearless Hawke. That beautiful, wonderful woman. She had gone through so much, suffered so much, and still she had found the courage to trust him, to open up her heart and body to him, to let herself take a chance on another person; something he hadn't been able to do, and never would have considered if he hadn't met her. She had been pushed aside by him, deserted, hurt, and still she cared. She had still come to his rescue, after the way he had treated her, after the words he had tossed at her, after the pain he had dealt her.

He realised now that he had given Sebastian the perfect chance to claim her, she had been left vulnerable, weak after his careless, hurtful behaviour, she had been left aching, maybe a little eager for revenge; those babies she carried were the result of that.

Did he have a right to hold their father’s sins over them? According to Angus, Anders had made some startling discoveries about Sebastian. The man he had known had never really existed, he was a lie, a doped out product of the Chantry. Yet he had seen a moment when the Prince had been startled by Fenris question of why he was doing that to an old friend. He had seen some regret, some small part of the Sebastian he had known and respected. No matter what he had done, and how he had manipulated Hawke, how he had wronged Fenris, he couldn't bring himself to hate the man, especially if what Anders had claimed was true. And his children were definitely innocent of their father’s crimes.

He sighed again. Maker, he could still remember his own mistakes. He wasn’t going to be the one to point the finger and accuse Sebastian of causing Hawke harm, not when he still had that flower she had left him, pressed between the pages of his Shartran book. He could still remember the cruel words he had said to her, the way he had accused her of being easy, of being a whore.

 _Rot and die, Hawke_ , he had told her. There wasn’t a day he didn't regret that. There wasn’t a day he didn't beat himself up for the pain he had caused her. Maybe...maybe he’d deserved to be put in a dark dungeon and beaten half to death. Maybe it had been a fitting punishment.

He thought of her again, growing large with another man’s children, all alone. Anders had said she was blaming herself for what had happened and he had upped and left, yet again, leaving her to deal with her misplaced guilt. He had left her without telling her she had been the only light for him, the only hope that had kept him sane in that dank cell.

He tried imagining what her babies would like and his heartbeat picked up, imagining Hawke with a tiny baby on each breast. If her daughters looked half like her, they would be gorgeous.

They would be innocent too, the only innocents ones in this whole mess. Should they be the ones to pay for both his and Hawke’s mistakes? Did he have it in him to accept the babies another man had sired? Did he love her enough?

Once that question had been asked, the answer came to him remarkably easily.

 _YES_.

She was worth it.

She was worth everything.

A slow smiled spread on his face. Some of the hurt and anger evaporated, leaving only love and incredible want at their wake.

Angus watched the elf’s face slowly transform, bathed in the silvery light of the moon, and his breath caught. A religious man himself, he could distinguish the look of a man that had made peace with the Maker from a mile away. A rare smile spread beneath his burly beard.

“Ah, laddie, you’ve seen the light, have ye not? Good for ye. Now go and win that pretty lass back. She’s worth it.”

Fenris nodded his head absentmindedly, still gazing at the moon.

“She most definitely is.”

“Maker be praised...” Angus looked up at the moon too. “A beautiful night for new beginnings this is, too.”

* * *

_When Hawke came back that day, she had gathered us all in her office and told us what Ethina and her had discussed._

_A plan to depose Sebastian._

_Elthina had agreed that Sebastian was in no way fit to rule Starkhaven. She had imparted with Hawke that the Grand Cleric of Starkhaven had sent upsetting reports of Sebastian’s behaviour; nobles who opposed him disappearing in the middle of the night, rumours of dark things going on in the palace dungeons._

_Elves and urchins disappearing from the streets, to be found butchered up beyond recognition in a ditch somewhere._

_Hawke had gathered us up to tell us things were going to get ugly, that once Sebastian knew of the plans to overthrow him, his wrath would probably be directed at her._

_She wanted our support, she had said. She planned to handle this herself, to try and avoid this whole mess turning into a full blown war between Starkhaven and Kirkwall. She wanted to know if we would stand by her._

_Hmph. As if any of us wouldn’t._

_Elthina was going to contact the Divine, and we even had Meredith’s support, who liked the idea of Kirkwall gaining control of Starkhaven a little too much._

_The first born daughter of Hawke would be named successor to the throne of Starkhaven, with a board of nobles acting as regents until the day she married. The ploy that the babies she was pregnant with hadn't really been Sebastian’s hadn't convinced anyone anyway, and Elthina had suggested it should be excused as a desperate plan by the Chantry to protect the future heirs of the Starkhaven throne from a man who was clearly deranged._

_Poor kids._

_I stood and watched, awed that the decisive, determined woman outlining the plan to get rid of Sebastian was the same woman who had withered away on a chair a few hours ago._

_Ah, I hate politics, I hated the fact that Hawke had to go to such lengths to ensure her safety and the safety of her unborn children. When I asked her why hadn't Elthina warned us of Sebastian’s past, she had huffed._

_“You don’t really think I trust that old crone, do you? I will die before I let them get their hands on my children,” she had said. “But I need their support until he’s out of the way.”_

_She had looked around the room, to the sombre faces of her trusted companions._

_“Make no mistake, people,” she had said. “Sebastian will die. He must die. I will see to it myself.”_

_Well, nobody could ever accuse my Hawke of being naive, or lacking in political shrewdness._

_And just like that, the Prince of Starkhaven’s death warrant was as good as signed._

_Good riddance, too._

_And on a happier note, although I didn't really know of it at that particular moment, the elf was on a ship back to Kirkwall, determined to win her back._

_Only I wasn’t sure he would succeed, this time. Sure, Hawke still loved him, but this time, he would have to fight to win her trust back._

_A good thing Broody was a fighter, and a true romantic at heart._

_As for Angus...later, when all this shit was over, I run across him in a little tavern in Tantervale. Had a bigger bunch of kids by then, and was making his living as a hunter._

_He had sent Fenris a copy of the Chant, beautifully bound in soft doe leather._

_And told him in a letter that he thought of him and that scary lass of his every time he saw the full moon shine down on a clear summer night._

_Fenris had laughed, and then put the book near the crib of his newborn son, Hawke’s twin daughters clinging to his legs, begging Papa for a story._

_I told you. The elf had it hard, had struggled to regain the chance he had nearly lost forever, but hey, he’d had an unfair advantage._

_Hawke fucking loved him._

_Ah...the luckiest bastard I have ever known._

_I shit you not._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to Kamille.

Varric whistled, seemingly without a care in the world, as he fingered yet another dagger at the merchant’s stall. The conversation of the pair of nobles next to him was easily overheard, and he noted down their names and their reactions in his head.

“Preposterous! That Fereldan _bitch_ , claiming the right to the throne of Starkhaven, and on what grounds? That the Prince is deranged! Hmph!” harrumphed one of the noble women. “I’ll have you know we attended a ball in Starkhaven two weeks ago, and the Prince was as courteous and polite as ever. He complimented Louisa’s dress and her beauty like a gentleman.”

 _Strike her out_ , Varric thought. _The old crone is planning to have her daughter married to Sebastian. No support from the Degrassi family for Hawke. Damn, and that family is powerful._

He shook his head in the negative to the merchant who had a hopeful look on his face and then moved on to look at the bows. _As if I’d ever buy one_ , he snickered under his breath, and pretended to examine the rack.

“The Prince was engaged to her, and she is expecting.” The other noble remarked. “I have relatives in Starkhaven. The situation there is grim...I must admit that perhaps...”

Another mental jot by Varric. The DeFaunteels were teetering on the verge of being supporting. Add their names to the ‘give a subtle nudge in the right direction’ list. He mentally catalogued the family; old money, just barely branching into various manufacturing enterprises, with the reluctance and slight disgust that could only possible be pulled off by families that were used to their money being handed down to them and now had to actually do something to earn it . Two sons, one daughter, minor nobles in the City of Chains, but well respected and liked by many. And with family ties to Starkhaven which could be very helpful.

He gave a polite nod to the merchant, and wondered off towards the next stall and to the group of nobles talking animatedly near it.

He chuckled under his breath. It was like sorting out a herd of cattle; who they could eat, who they could cull, who needed a gentle nudge with a cattle prod. And who needed to be de-horned as soon as possible.

He was _so_ enjoying this.

* * *

Isabela sauntered through the crowded bar, one mug of ale in her hands, her cleavage even lower than usual, and shot a suggestive smirk to a burly sailor near the bar.

 _Nice_ , she thought. _Strong, not too bright, and I bet he has a nice fat, thick_...she gave herself a mental shake. _Not here for this, not right now_ , she scolded herself and turned her attention to the man she had really been observing all night.

He was slim, but her experienced eye could see how lean and corded with muscle his body was under the heavy cloak that, combined with the shadows enveloping him in the corner he was quietly drinking in, served to make him almost invisible. The pirate queen’s eyes though, had noticed the unusual tension in his shoulders, the way his alert, intense gaze was filtering through the room looking for any sign of trouble. He had positioned himself so that he had perfect view of all the entrances into the room, and so that he had more than one avenues of escape. Clearly, she thought, a hunted man.

A hunted man could very easily become dangerous, and given the right incentive, he could easily become a hunter himself.

She sauntered even closer, and seemingly ignoring the way his body tensed and prepared to either flee or fight, she took the seat opposite him. She made sure not to appear threatening, or to block his escape, because that would put him on the offensive. Her eyes narrowed a bit at the way his hand tightened around a hidden dagger hilt; his fingers weren’t trembling or hesitant, but rather filled with determination and self-assurance. She would bet her next few fucks on the fact that this man knew how to handle his weapons.

These were the kind of men they wanted for what was going to be their own private little army; not the burly, loud man at the bar, all brawn and no brains. Hunted, desperate, _capable_ men.

_Now to see if he could be trustworthy or not._

She offered him a bright smile and leaned in closer, her glorious cleavage in perfect display.

 _Or if she could fuck him into obedience, which she SO definitely could_.

* * *

Merrill took a deep breath, trying to combat her nerves and to ease the rambling of thoughts. She had been given the task of finding elves from the Alienage that could help.

What did that mean exactly? She had to find elves capable of fighting? Did she want to find elves that would fight in a war they would probably not come out of alive? Were there even any elves like that in the Alienage? As far as she could tell, none of them could handle weapons, it wasn’t allowed, and how would she go about finding any of them that did? And what was she supposed to tell them? “Hey, I noticed you can fight, how would you like to take part in a secret, or not so secret, war between the Champion of Kirkwall and the Prince of Starkhaven? It’ll be fun!”

She took another deep breath and opened her door, stifling a little self-deprecating chuckle. Well, Hawke had entrusted her with this task and she could not let Hawke down. She would not. If Hawke thought she could do it, by the Dread Wolf she would.

She stepped out into the Alienage square and her shoulders once again drooped.

Creators, if only she knew where to start!

Just then, a group of elves, young males all of them, went past her, and she thought she caught a little whisper, a little something about a secret meeting at the Wounded Coast to train.

Train?

Her eyes brightened. It was a start.

* * *

Aveline had called her guards to the training grounds in the Keeps inner courtyard and was busy inspecting them; sure, it was for a completely different reason than they thought, but it was an inspection nonetheless.

She absentmindedly reprimanded one of her newest recruits for not having polished his grieves properly and then stood for the longest time regarding them with a somber, unflinching look, that made them all fidget nervously.

Donnic stepped into the yard and took his position as lieutenant next to her. She gave him a small nod, and then turned her attention back to her guards. Something inside her protested at the idea, but if her guards were ordered to go against Hawke she would have to give them that order; it was a good thing there was no Viscount to do so. With Meredith secretly on their side, the chances of that happening were slim; still she didn’t hold the Knight Commander above giving the order to save face if it suited her. And that would mean she would either have to go against her friend or go against her duty and turn her guards rogue.

Donnic nudged her arm ever so slightly. She lifted her eyes to him and that sweet, sweet man must have understood her inner turmoil because he spoke up and called a few names.

“Breddan, Grant, Evanson, Hurley,” he said and then pointed a few more, exactly the ones Aveline had determined were going to be the most valuable and the most willing to help. “You, and you, and you two back there. And yes, you too, Landsey, and you Farmel and Standleson. Stay here. The rest of you are dismissed.”

Aveline gave a curt nod to affirm his command and then turned to watch the muttering guards go.

She smiled to Donnic before she turned to the guards that were left in the yard.

“Men, what I am about to tell you could get you in a heap of trouble. I need your discretion.”

The guards looked startled and exchanged some surprised looks. The knot in her stomach tightened, and then, miraculously, Donnic’s hand was holding hers, squeezing with calm reassurance and the tension bled and died.

 _It is all going to be okay_ , she thought as she looked into his smiling eyes. _It has to._

 

* * *

Anders made the last potion, corked the little bottle carefully then packed it away in a small bag. He took one last look around him, to see if he had forgotten anything and then walked brusquely to the door. He took one moment to extinguish the light in the lantern and then lock up, which was a joke really, as the door was even flimsier than the lock and anyone could just breathe on it to break it open.

He looked carefully around to make sure no indiscreet eyes were watching before he slipped into the hidden passageway that led into Hawke’s cellars and maneuvered the short distance in the dark; he had learned the way by heart by now, and needed no light to reach her.

He emerged into the cellars, using the key Hawke had made him to open the heavy trapdoor, and then he was in her home. He shook like a wet dog- the closed and dark space always bothered him, but coming through, to the heat and warmth of her house, to her smell that permeated the air, was always worth it.

She was in the library, as usual, looking into the fireplace with a pensive look on her face.

“Hawke,” he gently called out to her as not to startle her, “I am here.”

She turned to him with a small smile and extended a hand. “Everything went well?”

Anders drew closer, and warmed his fingers at the small fire that was joyfully creaking in the fireplace. “Yes. The mage underground will help.”

She sighed, relieved, and laid a hand on the bulge of her belly. Anders smiled broadly and then covered her hand with his, sending a little jolt of energy to habitually check the babies, then smiling even more brightly.

“Little ones, hello,” he crooned. “Uncle Anders is here, don’t you worry.”

Hawke’s smile broadened on her face and an eyebrow went up. “Uncle Anders?”

Anders shrugged. “I can be daddy Anders. Just give the word.”

She leaned in and kissed his cheek and then she looked into the fire again.

“Thank you, Anders.”

But she didn’t elaborate. She didn’t tell him that her heart was still yearning for Fenris. _Perhaps in time_ , she thought. _There are other more important things to take care of right now before anyone can be their daddy, their father first and foremost._

* * *

Fenris looked over the rail of the prow, to the darkened mass in the distance that was Kirkwall. A deckhand went by, shouted something to him that was lost in the howling wind and the roar of the waves; the elf paid him no notice. His gaze was fixed in the distance, to the city that was fast approaching.

The sea was thrusting them towards it, pounding the little ship from all sides. The wind was howling like a wild beast. Waves broke over the sides and prow, bathing him in saltwater. He was soaked and the chilly gale was plastering his wet cloak to his thin frame, but he didn’t seem to notice.

Somewhere in that city, Hawke was all alone. Somewhere in that city, the woman he loved more than life itself was waiting-Maker, he hoped she was- for him.

He would find a way to get her back, even if it killed him.

* * *

_We rallied. We all did. We did our best, each of us using the skills in our disposal. I used my stealth, my contacts, pulled favours, pulled strings, bribed, sweet-talked, Void take me, I even pleaded._

_Isabella used her cunt. Hey, she could work it well, so why not? Don’t beat it till you’ve tried it. She landed us some very promising rogues, men who followed her around like lost_ puppies _but were among the deadliest little collection of assassins and cut-throats you have even seen._

_Aveline had her guards, Anders rallied his mages, even Merrill delivered us some eager-faced, green-eared elves._

_We all rallied._

_And Fenris came back. A little urchin came in one morning, breathless, telling me the news._

_Finally. Some light in the tunnel._

_And not a moment too soon, if you ask me._

 

 


	37. Chapter 37

Varric raced to the abandoned mansion that used to be Fenris’ regal abode, cursing his short feet all the way. A little urchin he had stationed near the docks –one of his many ears and eyes in the city- had come just minutes ago to tell him that he had seen a certain white-haired elf disembark from an Antivan ship during the night.

“By the Stone’s granite BALLS, Ethan, why didn’t you come tell me right away?” he had shouted at the boy and then rushed off, barely pausing to grab Bianca.

Broody was back. Nug. Shit. Was that good news or bad news?

A dwarf merchant he knew try to stall him as he was going past the Hightown Market with some prattle about guild business, but Varric brushed him off, huffing and puffing as he pushed through the crowds milling around in the square.

“Excuse me, Igor. I have some urgent business to attend to. It can’t possibly wait.”

The other dwarf’s eyes lit up with excitement. “Is is a venture, messere Varric? Can I...?”

He was left talking to thin air, as Varric never stopped a minute, rushing through the streets as fast as his short legs could carry him.

He leant on the wall next to the door for a few minutes once he arrived, trying to catch his breath that was sawing in his lungs. Damn it, dwarfs were long distance runners, not sprinters. Once he finally managed not to look and sound as flustered as a young maiden being chased by suitors, he fiddled with the lock and casually walked inside, peering through the gloom for any sign of the elf.

“Oi!” he bellowed. “Broody! Broodster! Are you here, you pointy-eared bastard?”

Nothing. Not a voice, not a sound, not any sign of movement. His heart fell. Damn. Maybe the kid had been wrong, but then again, how many white-haired elves with a huge broadsword strapped to their backs could there be?

He took a few steps further into the foyer, coming to stop just feet away from the twin staircases leading to the upper floor.

“Fuck, elf, if you’re here say something, sing out!”He tried one last time.

“What would you like me to sing, Varric?” a deep-throated baritone sounded from behind him. Varric jumped a foot in the air and he turned about, Bianca already cocked and ready to shoot before he realised...hey. He knew that voice.

Fenris was standing a few feet away, having emerged from one of the ante-chambers that led to the mansion’s servants’ quarters. He had a very un-Fenris like half smile on his face, one corner of his mouth turned upwards- just a shadow of smile really, but for Fenris that equalled a big, toothy grin.

Varric took quick stock of the elf standing in front of him. He looked good. Not perfect, mind you, but good. He had put on some weight, and from what Varric could see, it was all hard, solid muscle. He had lost that corpse-like paleness too, although he was not back to his exotic, sun-kissed bronze yet. 

“Broody. You scared Bianca.” Varric patted down the stock of his crossbow, shooting the elf a chastising look. “There, there, darling,” he crooned to the weapon. “The mean elf didn’t mean it.”

That corner of the elf’s mouth went up another notch, shocking the Stone out of Varric because that little smirk could now actually audition as a smile. Fenris then bowed his head and the other corner of his lips joined the first one in its upwards direction.

“My sincere and heartfelt apologies, fair Bianca, for alarming you,” he drawled, and Varric’s eyebrows shot upwards at the hidden amusement in the warrior’s voice.

 _Well, well, well...it seems that they sell senses of humour in Antiva_ , Varric thought, _and the elf bought himself one. About time._

“It’s good to see you, Broody,” Varric’s smile broadened. “Even if you seem to have displaced you usual scowl that we all know and ...ahhh...love?”

A small chuckle escaped Fenris, who covered the short distance between him and the dwarf and laid a bandaged hand on Varric’s shoulder, a small but warm smile dimpling his face and crinkling at the corner of his eyes.

“Believe me when I say it, Varric, my friend, but the pleasure is all mine.”

Varric suppressed the urge to pinch himself to make sure he wasn’t imagining things.

Damn. Fenris had actually lost some of his broodiness.

He shook his head as the elf led him to a small side chamber, eager to see more and to share news.

 _Nugshit_ , he thought. _Broody without the brood_. _I had never thought to live to see the day._

He didn’t know what to make of all this- in short, Varric had been left speechless, and that was a rare occurrence, indeed. If he was a betting man -and he wasn’t, not anymore- he’d bet Hawke would have a hard time believing this was the same elf that had left, broken and bruised, just a short time ago. As for Fenris...Varric wondered how he would react to the news of the oncoming ‘campaign’ against Sebastian.

And that little baby bump that had grown considerably larger.

* * *

Hawke woke up with a start, her hand flying to her belly. The nightmare that had plagued her for the past few nights had been back to haunt her; she’d had her babies and Sebastian had managed to take them away from her.

She rested a hand against her forehead then reached for the jug of water and poured herself a glass, drinking down huge gulps, trying to calm her frazzled nerves. Maker, it had been so real! He could see her former fiancé leering at her in her dream, her two precious bundles in his arms, while she begged him not to take them.

She measured the span of her extended waistline, letting the reassuring presence of the taut skin over her daughters reassure her. A little nudge heralded the fact that one of her babies was awake and a smile came to her face as she passed her hand tenderly over her belly. The nudge became a solid good morning kick, and her smile grew wider.

She couldn’t wait to see them. Blessed bride of the Maker, she couldn’t wait to hold them.

She rolled out of bed with some difficulty and stood in front of her mirror. While in the past she had avoided gazing at her own image she now turned this and that way, admiring the ever growing bulge. At nearly five months, she was thriving. Isabela had commented that she was finally beginning to look as a pregnant woman should: fat as a bronto, her skin and hair radiant, her eyes shining with that inner brilliance that only expectant mothers could pull off. And with the temper of an ogre. The fat comment had earned the busty pirate a vase hurled at her head, but Isabela had been too nimble for Hawke to actually land the hit. Aveline, one the other hand, still claimed she was still way too thin for a woman carrying twins, and urged her to eat more.

She sighed, running her hand over her distended abdomen again. Half the people in her life were worried she was getting a little too big, and the other half were continuously shoving food down her throat. They pampered her and humoured her quicksilver temper, her bouts of moodiness and oversensitivity. One part of her was charmed, and the other just wanted to slap them all upside the head and tell them she was still Hawke, she was still their leader. Too bad that all too often her eyes clouded over for seemingly no reason, while she was giggling at the next moment.

 _Andraste help me_ , she thought, _I am behaving like a lunatic_!

That brought her thoughts back to Sebastian with a shudder, her dream still too recent in her memory. The Grand Cleric of Kirkwall along with the one in Starkhaven had already petitioned the Divine for Sebastian’s dethronement. Starkhaven didn't have the same political system as Felerden and Kirkwall, where the King and Viscount accordingly were chosen by a Landsmeet; succession was strictly hereditary. The nobles did have to swear fealty, however, and if more than two thirds of them refused to do so, the Prince was required to abdicate his right to the throne, in which case the next in line for succession was appointed Prince. It wasn’t exactly a law, but it was tradition; Sebastian wouldn’t dare break it.

The first step of the plan was for the Chantry to declare Sebastian unfit to rule. As the Prince relied heavily on his previous image as a devout Chantry brother, that would seriously undermine his popularity- as if the rumours flying around Starkhaven weren’t already enough. Varric’s vast informant network was reporting that people were already whispering about depravities in the castle dungeons, about torture and murder. Those old enough to remember the rumours from before Sebastian had had his turn of faith were now dredging up those unsavoury tales as well. The climate wasn’t good for Sebastian, which was to her benefit.

The second step of her plan was to gain the nobles’ support. As the traditional ceremony where the nobles swore fealty hadn't taken place yet, if she managed to get more than half of them not to support Sebastian, his days as a Prince were numbered. According to Varric, they already had the support of several strong, respectable noble houses, and Hawke was deep in negotiations with the rest of them; the amount of correspondence she had to go through daily was staggering.

She even had a contingency plan in place in case Sebastian renounced her babies; that would make her claim to the throne invalid. She had already contacted the next in line, one of Sebastian’s cousins twice removed. Of course, she had no intention of ever letting one of her children actually become Princess of Starkhaven, which was a fact that the Chantry should absolutely not get wind of. Vincent Vael Leod was going to be Prince; Hawke had briefly met with him, and had determined he was a trustworthy ally, a dependable man, if a little reluctant and indecisive; he would make a good ruler for Starkhaven.

She sighed again. Damn it, she had made the first move, now what remained to be seen was how Sebastian was going to react. She was tired of living in limbo, waiting every day for what his next move would be and when it would come; the anxiety was killing her. The way she saw it, he would either make his own petition to the Divine, and use political means against her, or he would get violent.

Whatever. She was well prepared for both, she just wished he would get on with it, before she was too big to even move. She harrumphed, then petted her belly again. Trust Sebastian to choose the second option, and only move when she was as big as house, too huge to fit in her armour, and waddling like a duck.

Sod it all to the Void, if there only was a way to force his hand!

* * *

She got dressed and made her way downstairs in search of breakfast as her stomach started rumbling. She found Varric in the kitchen, helping himself to the huge amounts of foods Oranna had become accustomed to preparing to feed the hordes of people coming and going at all times of the day; pirates, rogues, assassins, hired guards, Aveline’s guards that had volunteered, apostates, elves from the Alienage, Varric’s urchins. It was a motley crew at best.

She greeted the dwarf who just grunted, his mouth stuffed with one of Oranna’s scrumptious cupcakes, and took a seat at the table. The elf served her a cup of hot herbal tea, which Hawke accepted with a grateful smile, then heaped an amount of food on her plate that made Varric’s eyes bulge out.

“Are you seriously going to eat all that?” he asked, eyeing the plate with an incredulous look then glancing at her waistline.

“I’m not fat!” Hawke protested at that look. “I’m carrying two people here!”

“You sure?” Varric smiled. “Looks like you’re eating for six.”

She rolled her eyes at him and, undeterred, continued attacking her food.

“Well, you waistline will thank me for this...” Varric sighed. “I think I might have the perfect little piece of news to dampen that appetite of yours.”

Hawke froze with the spoon halfway to her mouth. “Oh, Varric. Bad news? Can’t it wait until after I’m done eating?” she groaned.

“It can’t wait for a week.”

She rolled her eyes again and then glared at him. “I am NOT fat.”

“Yet.”

“Spill it Varric,” she growled, but a little half smile played around her mouth. “What is it?”

Varric regarded her with a hesitant look. The little banter between them and that amused smile; Maker, he hated upsetting her. But it needed to be said.

“The bastard’s back,” he just said.

Hawke paled, and the fork dropped from her fingers onto the plate, making a clattering noise that sounded much too loud in the suddenly quiet room.

“Sebastian? He’s back in Kirkwall?” she stuttered. He hand flew to her belly in a protective gesture.

“Not that bastard, the other one,” Varric scoffed.

Her eyes flew even wider and that hand started trembling.

“Fenris?”

“Yes. The broodical son returns,” Varric attempted to lighten the mood with a joke. “I just saw him.”

“How is he? How are his hands?” The questions leapt out of her mouth before she had the presence of mind to stop them; Varric raised an eyebrow and she bit her lip, ashamed at sounding so...so damned desperate, so needy. She carefully schooled her expression into a mask of indifference and waved casually. “Not that I care, of course...”

The dwarf petted his chest hair and huffed sarcastically. “Sell it to someone who’s buying it, Hawke.”

She tightened her lips and crossed her arms stubbornly in front of her chest. “I don’t. I don’t give a fuck. He can go leap of a cliff for all I care.”

Varric just gave her a long, pointed look. She held his gaze for just a second, then turned away. “He wants to see you.”

“You spoke to him?” she was breathless again as she turned towards him. “Did he say anything...” she remembered herself again. “I don’t care.”

“You know, Hawke, if you say that enough, you might convince yourself in the end, but not me.”

Hawke bit her lip, then she gave up trying to look nonchalant and indifferent. Her eyes softened by a pleading look. “Varric, don’t ask that of me. I...I can’t. I can’t face him. It is too much for me.”

Varric sighed and leaned forward on his chair. “Damn it, Hawke, he wants to help. And if there is one thing you have to hand to him, it’s that he _does_ have a bone to pick with Prince Shithead. He deserves a chance to have his vengeance, Hawke.”

She fixed her eyes on the opposite wall and contemplated it, as if her very life depended on it. Varric watched the play of emotions on her face with fascination; pain, anger, sadness, hope, tenderness, anger again. Pain that made her eyes water. In the end, her eyes hardened with determination and she turned to him, nodded tersely, then sighed.

“Maker be my witness, this is the last chance I will ever give him,” she spat. “He does indeed deserve a shot at Sebastian...when I remember what he did to him...” a shudder ran through her and she closed her eyes, pain twisting her features. A second later she was under control again. “Besides, him being back might just be the thing that will tip the scales; it might goad Sebastian into action. Andraste knows, I am tired of waiting.”

Varric smiled, pleased that even in this highly emotional situation she was able to be practical. “What do I tell the elf?” he asked and she looked at the wall again, before she closed her eyes, sighed heavily, then patted her belly as if she wanted to reassure herself that everything was going to be fine.

 “Tell him to come over after dinner.”

* * *

_Hawke asked me to be there when she met with Fenris that very night, and though I wanted to say no, because Varric in the middle is a very awkward position for me, I couldn’t resist. I am as curious as a cat, I admit it. Sorry. There’s nothing I can do about it._

_I took it one step further, and offered to walk Broody there. Yes, I was afraid he might bolt. After being the one to talk Hawke into allowing him to even marginally get back into her life, I didn't want to be the one to have to tell her the elf had backed down. I was determined to drag him there by his ears if I had to._

_We stopped at that old woman’s flower stall on the way, and I saw him talk to her for a while before she went to the back of her stall and opened a box; I didn't see what she gave him, but I did see the elf remove the pendant he had been wearing around his neck; that thing had been part of his share of the Deep Roads expedition, I know because I had been holding on to it for him, along with the rest of his share that I’d been investing in various ventures. I knew it was expensive. No, that’s an understatement. Let’s just say the elf could have used it to buy a full year’s supply of wine with it, which might not sound much, but remember that the elf drank like a fish; for the average person, it was five years’ worth of expensive Tevinter wine._

_You might be expecting me to tell you what they said that night, but you will be sorely disappointed; they didn't say a word. Not verbally in any case. Their eyes spoke volumes; distrust, weariness and wariness on her side. Remorse, shame and sorrow on his._

_His gaze had trailed over her belly, his stony, unreadable expression in place, and Hawke had visibly stiffened. But they didn't exchange a single word, much to this dwarf’s frustration._

_Maybe that was a good thing, because Stone help them, when those two opened their mouths they ended up hurting each other._

_Her eyes had fixed on his hands and he had showed them to her, still not speaking, bent and stretched his fingers to show her they were nearly all healed. The small smile that bloomed on her face for just a second made my heart flutter, let me tell you. There was such joy in it._

_His eyes had warmed, and they had exchanged another long look, one of those looks that make you think time has stood still._

_I bet there were many things they wanted to tell each other. I bet words and apologies and explanations were screaming to get out, but they were both stubborn, mulish people, each of them waiting for the other to speak first._

_Or they were too choked up to actually talk, I don’t know._

_He did give her a little rectangular box, though, which she hesitantly accepted._

_Inside was a perfect crystal replica of a blue rose, the facets so detailed, the art so delicate and finely crafted that it looked as if a butterfly could be fooled to sit on it any minute. As she held it up to the light, a beam of light struck it and it glittered and spilled a rainbow of sparkling colour on them both._

_The most beautiful light at the end of a dark, dreary tunnel I have ever seen._

_She looked at it, her eyes huge, then nodded to him before he turned and left, bowing his head down low respectfully._

_The meaning?_

_“I can't have you but I can't stop thinking about you.”_

_I decided then and there that I needed a book on flower meanings, and I did manage to locate one in the market as I was going home. The blue rose, it said, symbolises unattainability. It represents something which is destined to remain as a dream, and as a never-to-be-fulfilled wish. It can also mean love at first sight, or an impossible or unrequited love. Accomplishing the impossible, fighting all odds and new beginnings can also be represented by the blue rose._

_My, oh my, but the elf was as eloquent in gestures as he was in words. With one move he told her he loved her, but didn't have any hope of ever gaining her affection again. He told her she was his dream, his chimera. And that they could fight all odds together, fight a desperate battle side by side, and perhaps have a new beginning._

_Ah, smooth moves, Broody, smooth moves. I tip my hat to you, wherever you are, you broody bastard. I hope you can see me, and that crystal blue rose, sitting here on my mantel. Your son entrusted it to me before having to flee for his life one more time. It isn’t easy being an apostate mage in this here time and day, but don’t worry, the both of you, I’m keeping an eye out for him. Besides, Leto is one of the best, you know that. And Anders trained him well. He is already making a name for himself as a man not to be crossed, like his father, and a champion of any good cause, like his mother. You can look on him with pride, my friends, wherever you are right now._

_I sometimes look at that crystal blue rose, and think that it was a beginning and an end as well; an apology and a proposal; an admission of guilt and a promise for the future. Hope and hopelessness wrapped in one. A love declaration that was met with both fear and awe; but it didn't give up, it never gave up._

_There is a little chip on the stem, from when Rose dropped it; I still remember the day. Rose had gotten her one and only spanking from her beloved, doting daddy, and she and Lily had both cried afterwards, one from a stinging tussy, the other out of sympathy. One of the petals is missing; I think that was when Hawke accidentally knocked it off the mantelpiece. You never did tell me, Broody, if she got a spanking too._

_Ah, nug shit. I am an old man...an old lonely man, and...I miss you both so much, my friends._

_I miss our laughs, our talks, the way Fenris used to put the kids to sleep at night with a song. I miss Hawke’s temper and the girls’ cherubic little cheeks when they were babies. I miss how Anders gave little sombre Leto his lessons, leading the boy with a steady hand and a tender voice, the cats that were continuously trailing behind him. Leto used to call him the Catman, remember? He was the first to go, obeying the call of his tainted blood, and Leto had cried for days._

_All I have is memories, and this here book I’m writing. Rose and Lily come and see me now and then, both happily married now, both of them with toddlers trailing behind them. It is ironic, isn’t it, that Isabela produced such serious, steady, respectable sons...who would have thought so? And with none other than Zevran. Those boys should have been hellions. We all had a good laugh about it at the wedding; Isabela and Zevran’s sons actually waiting for the wedding night. Zevran had been so disappointed in his boys. Haha. The children of the two most promiscuous people ever, going into their married life as virgins. Priceless, I tell you._

_When they come see me, they bring spring back for a few hours and then they’re gone. Leto writes as often as he can; every time he manages to come see me, my heart aches with how much he looks like you both, his eyes as green and expressive as Fenris’, his rare smile as beautiful as Hawke’s._

_Still, I can’t complain. Rivain has been good to us. It was a good place to settle down. I only wish I knew where Merrill was...I lost track of her years ago. The last time I saw her, when she visited after you guys were gone, she had stood right here in front of that blue rose, and told me something which still gives me gooseflesh:_

_In elven lore, a blue rose means love even after death._


	38. Chapter 38

Hawke kept her spine as stiff as a ramrod and her nerves strictly under control with an iron fist until Fenris had left. She then took a deep, shuddering breath and slumped on a chair, her whole body racked by shudders.

She raised her hand to look at the crystal rose she was still clutching; she felt like weeping. Once more, Fenris had managed to sucker-punch her, effortlessly bypassing her anger and disappointment to speak directly to her heart.

 _Damn him_.

Underneath her heart, one of her daughters gave a kick strong enough to jostle her; she smiled –a wan, tremulous grin – and laid a hand on her belly.

“Are you alright, Hawke?” Varric laid a hand on her shoulder.

She showed him the rose. Varric picked it up and studied it under the light of a nearby candle. “I bet there’s some profound metaphor hiding here, but all I can see is expensive glass. Care to explain?”

She took the crystal back from him and ran her fingertip over the edge of one of the petals. She sighed again, then got up to walk to the fireplace and lay it on the mantle. She stood there watching the fire playing in the hearth, not speaking. She didn’t trust herself to speak. A maelstrom of emotions raged inside her heart; pain, mistrust, anger, disappointment...love, desire, want, hope.

“I must find that cat,” Varric pretended to look around, distracting her. She raised an eyebrow as Varric pretended to look under the couch. “You know, the one that got your tongues, both yours and Broody’s,” the dwarf explained. “Where the Void did it go?”

A half smile curled her lip. Varric tapped his foot on the floor with a look of slowly mounting annoyance, then, when she still didn’t say anything, he threw his arms in the air, totally frustrated. He let loose a string of impressive curses, involving nugs, blighters, Andraste’s privates, the Maker and piles of shit. “I have been expecting this moment for months!” he pointed an accusatory finger at Hawke. “And what do you and that nug-humping elf do? You just stand there. And not say a word. Not. A. Fucking. Word... Bleh. Are you trying to drive me up a wall, Hawke?”

Her smile widened and a little chuckle escaped her. She brought a hand to her mouth to stifle it, but the look of righteous anger on Varric’s face was too much; all the tension left her in big guffaws of laughter; she clutched her belly, bending over with the force of it.

“Stop laughing Hawke, I’m warning you!”

She laughed even harder, tears running down her face now.

“NUG SHIT!” Varric put his hands on his hips and glared at her. “At least tell me what the fucking rose means.”

She sobered up a little, a smile still on her face, and her eyes warmed as they trailed over the rose again. “It means...a lot,” she said, her voice soft.

Varric waited but she didn’t seem eager to say more.

“That’s it? Really Hawke? That’s all you’re going to give me? You do realise I will probably die of curiosity, right?”

She chuckled a bit again. “Yes. That’s all. Ask Fenris if you want to.”

“I value my heart inside my chest cavity, thank you very much,” Varric huffed.

“Tough,” Hawke raised an eyebrow. “I’ve had enough of people butting into my personal business.” She then sighed and looked to her boots, feeling guilty for her sudden temper outburst; Varric was friend- a good friend. He didn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of her mood swings.

“I...I appreciate what all of you have done, Varric, what you are willing to do in the future. But I have had it up to here,” she pointed to her eyes with a curt gesture, “with people messing with my love life. If, and I say IF, I decide to give Fenris another chance, I want none of you butting in. This is between him and me. _If_ it comes to be.”

Varric nodded solemnly, and then a pleased smile spread on his face. “About fucking time, Hawke.”

She raised her chin high. “Spread the word, Varric.”

* * *

Sebastian crunched the parchment into his hands and then tossed it in the fireplace; he watched it burn, the fires reflecting in his blue eyes. Thin fingers racked through his hair and he let loose a string of vulgar curses.

The Divine was sending an agent to investigate rumours of ‘demonic affluence’ on the Prince of Starkhaven.

This must have been her doing; no one else could be behind it. Only Hawke could have done this. And Elthina- that ass-fucked BITCH!- was probably helping her.

They would pay. They would all pay. There would be _hell_ to pay.

Damn Hawke. She had snatched that elven fucker of hers right out of his hands, just when he was going to have some real fun with the little turd. She had rescued her boy toy from his rightful punishment, just as Sebastian was about to hand him over to his master; he had enjoyed the thought of what Danarius would have done to him.

Now he was free, back with Hawke. He was probably sleeping in  her bed, putting his filthy elven hands on her, touching her, tainting her. Images of Hawke, heavily pregnant with his children –his children damn it!- on her knees sucking the elf off flooded his mind. He would probably be spilling his filthy seed inside the same womb where the next Vaels were growing. Damn them! Damn them both!

A headache, the first of the day, started forming behind his eyes, and he hid his head in his hands. The voices would start whispering soon, the pain would become so unbearable that he would want to gouge his eyes out.

Healers and herbalists could do nothing; they had just given him some pain potions and told him not to get stressed.

But how could he not stress, with his woman running loose with a filthy knife-ear, and the entire world against him. The pressure in his skull increased. Damn it. He needed relief.

He downed a potion that dulled the pain a bit and made his way to the dungeon, where he knocked on a heavy iron door. A weasel-like man with beady eyes opened the door and bowed down low, his nose almost touching the ground. “My Prince,” he greeted Sebastian in his nasal, annoying voice. “We have your request.”

“Finally,” Sebastian removed his cloak and threw it over a chair. The room might have been in the dungeons, but it was not a dank, bleak cell. There was expensive furniture here, a four-poster bed, a lush armchair, a little portable bar.

Only the far wall resembled a cell; chains and ropes hanging from the ceiling, wicked looking torture devices on one end. A cage with the young girl they had provided him with last week. The girl flinched and scurried to the end of the cage, shivering as she curled up on herself, trying to make her body look smaller. Sebastian noticed the fresh bruises on her with a detached smile. He had grown tired of her, and it seemed that his torturer was having his fun with her now.

“So, where is he? Where did you find him?”

The torturer rubbed his hands, a look of total glee on his face. “They are bringing him in now, My Prince. It wasn’t easy locating a specimen just like you wanted it; bronze-skinned and green eyes and white hair...the lad was blond, but we bleached his hair.”

“Good,” Sebastian smiled wolfishly. “He will do.”

* * *

Fenris hesitated for just a second before knocking on Hawke’s door the next morning. A man answered, a wicked-looking dagger in his hand and a distrustful expression on his heavily scarred face. He looked at Fenris for a few seconds, blocking the way with his body, before shouting to someone over his shoulder.

“Oi! Captain Isabela! An elf at the door. White hair. Big sword. Looks mean. Do I gut him?”

Isabela appeared in the doorframe a second later, her eyes wide in shock for just a second, before she smiled coldly.

“Well, well, well...Look at what the cat has just dragged in. Varric wasn’t selling us his usual bullshit, then. Will wonders never cease?”

“Step aside, wench,” Fenris growled.

“Not so fast, sweet thing,” she drawled, her casual posture masking a body ready to pounce. “Does she know you’re here? I wouldn’t want to upset her. She is in a delicate condition, after all.”

Fenris sighed. “We met briefly last night. Step aside, Isabela.”

She regarded him coolly, her eyes accessing him. “Are you here to stay this time, or here for a booty call?”

“Are you here to stay this time, or here looking to start a war again?”

She pursed her lips. “Touché.”

“Step aside,” Fenris growled, near the end of his patience. “I will only ask this last time.”

She sighed and rolled her eyes and stepped aside. Fenris walked in and his eyes widened a bit at the amount of people in her house. There were two men sitting on the bench in the antechamber, heavily equipped with daggers and knives. An elven woman was positioned near her desk, a bow in her hands. Another woman was going by, dressed in a guard’s uniform.

“What...Varric mentioned Hawke had been recruiting, but I wasn’t expecting this,” he muttered to no one in particular and Isabela chuckled.

“You haven’t seen anything yet,” she drawled then opened the kitchen door to show him at least six other people sitting around the table, having breakfast. “That’s the night shift,” she said.

Fenris scowled. “Is the state of affairs really so dire?”

Her eyes flashed, all signs of humour gone. “Yes,” she just said.

Fenris straightened his spine. It seemed he had come back at just the eleventh-hour.

* * *

Sebastian emerged from his bath feeling invigorated after a night of...games. His headache was nearly gone, and the voices were silent for once, sated by the violence and bloodshed of last night’s activities.

He quickly got dressed then made his way to his study. The morning mail was there; the official parchments were being taken care of by his Seneschal. Only the mail of personal interest was left for him to read in privacy.

Absentmindedly, grabbing a bite to eat from the tray on a side table, he broke the seal on the first one. Then he choked a bit, and coughed heavily.

Magister Danarius was not pleased the elf had escaped him. He was on his way to Kirkwall, and invited him to join him ‘if you want the prize I have offered you bound and delivered to you, under your full control’.

Sebastian called in a servant, and made preparations for the trip.

* * *

 Fenris took a reluctant seat at the table, five of the men looking at him with barley veiled distrust, while the sixth, a guard whose face he vaguely remembered, just gave him a curt nod in acknowledgement.

Fenris nodded back. He watched the men resume their previous conversation in hushed tones, marvelling at this motley crew Hawke had assembled; one of the men was an eager faced elf, the other two looked to be assassins, and a third one was a dwarf, dressed in Carta colours. The guard he could understand, Aveline had probably asked her men to guard Hawke’s estate, but the last man? A templar recruit? Here, in Hawke’s house?

He shook his head. Apparently, Varric had not been giving him any bullshit either. Meredith was indeed on their side, and according to Varric, Knight Captain Cullen was a regular at her house ‘giving her puppy eyes’.

Venhedis, was there not a single male in this city that was not besotted with her?

Just then the door swung again and the Guard Captain herself walked in. She took one look at him then motioned for him to follow her, to which he just cocked an eyebrow. She narrowed her lips before asking the rest of the men to give them some privacy, then slumped on a chair.

“I never expected to see your sorry carcass being dragged through that door again,” she spat. “We must kill the cat that did this.”

Fenris’ lip went up a notch. “You are the second person that incorporates my person and a cat-dragging in one sentence.”

Aveline regarded him coolly. “You do like something a cat would drag in –a rat, to be precise.”

Fenris rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Anything in particular you desire of me, Aveline?”

She leaned forward in her chair. “Varric told me about last night and all that romantic crap with the flower. But I am not convinced. When are you actually planning to apologise to her? To ask for her forgiveness?”

He fixed her with an intense stare.

“I do _not_ intent to ask for it,” he said solemnly. “I intent to earn it.”

Aveline looked at him for a few long minutes, clearly accessing his words. “Good,” she said in the end. “I will be watching you.”

Fenris narrowed his eyes. “No intervention, not this time,” he spat. “I may have inadvertently messed things up, but as I recall, your gentle mending did no small amount of damage as well. This time, if she deigns to give me the time of day, stay out of it.”

A slow smile spread on the red-haired Captain’s strict face. “Finally, Fenris. You see the light.”

She got up and grabbed a covered plate under his shocked gaze and moved it to the table. “Dig in,” she said, uncovering it to let the tantalising smell of pancakes drift to his nose; his stomach growled loudly. “You look famished.”

* * *

Anders burst through the door of her study, panting.

“Tell me it’s not true!”

Hawke sighed wearily, looking at him with a resigned look. She knew exactly what he was referring to.

“It’s true,” she just said, rearranging the inkpot and her pen to mask her sudden apprehension. “He’s back.”

She snuck a look at him, fear rising inside her. Would Fenris’ return cost her Anders? His gentle, caring support, his constant presence, had been a godsend. Would this make him snap? She knew Anders loved her; she knew he was hoping that she would one day feel the same, despite her telling him time and time again that all she could see in him was a trusted, beloved friend.

He slumped, his shoulders drooping. “So, you will just take him back? After everything he’s done? After the way he has forsaken you, hurt you, time and time again? You would cast me aside for that bitter, opinionated beast? He’s nothing better than a rapid dog, biting the hand that tried to pet him. Hawke!” he shot her a pleading look. “You can’t possibly mean to take him back!”

“I don’t intend to, no,” she whispered, and sighed at the look of relief that spread on his face. “Anders, I still love him. You know that. But I don’t trust him. I can’t. Not anymore.”

Anders slumped on the chair opposite hers and his head dropped. He sighed wearily then raised his eyes to hers. “I am sorry, Hawke,” he mumbled.

She cocked an eyebrow. “What for?”

A small sad smile graced his lips. “You deserve happiness, Hawke. I am selfish enough to want to be the man that will give it to you, but...” he breathed in, and let his breath out in a long, resigned exhale. “I also love you enough to want you to be happy...even if it is with him.”

Tears came unbidden to her eyes. _Oh, Anders_ , she thought, her heart bleeding. _My sweet, sweet Anders. How I wish it was you I had fallen in love with._

He seemed to read the thought in her eyes and he raised a hand. “Don’t say it, Hawke. It hurts to hear you say it. You are a one-man woman, I know. You’ve told me before. If you tell me one more time that you wish your heart had chosen me, I will start bawling like a child, and trust me, you don’t want to see that.” He sent her a small smile that turned his scruffy face into a mischievous little boy. “Plus, the tears get into the feathers and then they moult; a dreadful sight, trust me.” He got up and lovingly petted the feathers on his coat. “We bad-ass apostates have an image to live up to, after all. Can’t do that with my feathers looking all mouldy and moulted.”

She smiled. “Anders, I love you and your feathers, you know that.”

He bowed. “My feathers and I return the sentiment. Now excuse me, I have an old patient to see to.”

* * *

Anders walked into the kitchen, to see Aveline and Fenris sitting at the table, Varric with them, sharing a plate of pancakes like nothing had changed. He felt a small wave of resentment rising inside him; after all he had done, after the way he had walked away-not just from Hawke but from all of them- the others still took him back like an old friend. Damn that elf, but he didn't deserve it.

Fenris raised his head and locked gazes with the fuming healer. “If you make one comment about cats and what they dragged in, mage,” he growled, “I swear I will drive my fist through your guts.”

Anders’ eyes widened at the way Varric and Aveline snickered at that, then shrugged. “Cats are intelligent creatures, elf, and they possess good taste,” he spat while taking a seat. “Why would any of them have _anything_ to do with the likes of you?”

A corner of Fenris mouth arched upwards.

Varric brought a hand to his chest. “Oh. Be still my pitter-pattering heart. The elf smiles. Colour me breathless.”

Anders rolled his eyes and made to grab a pancake, his stomach growling, just as Fenris was reaching out for it. The healer’s eyes were drawn to the elf’s hands and suddenly, like water evaporating under the hot sun, his anger was gone; the memory of those hands burned into a gory mass of flesh and pus reminded him that Fenris had paid enough.

“Can I?” he motioned to the elf’s hand and the elf flinched, and hid his hands under the table, uncomfortable at how everybody’s eyes were suddenly on his still bandaged fingers. He exchanged a look with the healer and then nodded, slowly, hesitantly. One hand snuck out from under the table, to be followed by the next, and he laid them both on the table, under Anders’ suddenly soft gaze.

That small movement had taken more courage he had ever shown, and more trust; to put his hands in the care of a mage, a man he despised...but no, he realised with a jolt, he didn't despise Anders anymore. Anders...Anders had healed him. He had taken care of him even though they had been bitter enemies, and while Fenris would have liked to believe he’d only done it because Hawke had asked him to, he’d gone much further than that, nearly draining himself to keep him alive.

Anders was a healer, a good healer. And...thought Fenris was loathe to admit it...a good man. Mage or not, abomination or not...a good, decent man.

The healer unwrapped the bandages, his fingers careful, under a suddenly oppressive silence. He then trailed a fingertip down one of the markings, a faint glow following his process, and turned Fenris hands around to take a look at the palms, where the scarring had been the worst. The flesh was still red, after all this time, the new skin still tender, but the warrior’s hands looked almost perfectly healed. He tested for mobility and pain threshold, flicking his eyes to the elf’s face to see if applying pressure on his skin would cause him pain, testing for nerve damage.

“Can you grip as well as you did?”

“Not yet,” Fenris answered, holding his breath. “It gets better every day.”

“Any stretching feeling or itching?”

“Constantly. The cream helps.”

Anders hummed, still examining the elf’s hands. “Good. That’s good. It means the skin is still healing. And that the nerves haven’t been severely damaged.”

“Can you still do the fisting thing?” Isabela piped in from the doorway, startling Fenris and making him draw his hands back. He narrowed his eyes at her, while Anders tried to control his smile.

“I don’t know. Are you willing to let me experiment on you?” he growled to the pirate.

Isabela’s eyes lit up. “Oh, yes!” she purred. “I have some very nice ideas about where...”

Anders chuckled, then without thinking it, patted Fenris arm. “Don’t do it, Fenris,” he snickered. “You’d just be exposing your skin to a lot of dangerous germs. As your healer, I strongly advise you against it...and her.”

Shocked eyes turned to look at him, then a look most of them had rarely seen on Fenris’ face softened the hard edges, and made his green eyes sparkle.

“Don’t worry, _Anders_ ,” he muttered, the fact that he had referred to the healer by his name not lost on the rest of them, making them gasp, “I will not.” He stretched his fingers then clenched them again, before giving the stunned mage a small, friendly smile.  “Thank you.”

“You...you..are welcome?” Anders stuttered, too shocked for words.

If he wasn’t mistaken, that look on Fenris face had been one of...warmth? Cordiality?

Wonders never ceased.

* * *

_I watched that little scene between Blondie and Broody thinking to myself that hey, this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship._

_And I wasn’t wrong.  Who could EVER have imagined?_

_But, yes, once this mess was done with, after Hawke and Fenris were happily shocking the Hightown nobles raising their little family without a care in the world, Anders and Fenris grew closer. Anders was resigned to the fact he would never have Hawke, but was happy for her happiness. He delivered her children, all three of them, and even saved her life...but that is a story for another time._

_Then the mage –templar shit started escalating, and Anders was swept up in it. We all know how that ended, don’t we?...yeah, in a pile of nugshit the size of Sundermount. Hawke was livid at what Anders had done, was furious at him for dragging her and her young family into an all-out open war._

_I still remember her standing over Anders with a knife in her hand, fires raging in her eyes; Fenris had held her hand back. Begged her not to kill Anders. Asked her to let him go; “he wants to die,” he had said. “Let him go and be done with it...don’t let him make himself into a martyr.”_

_Hawke had cried, telling Anders to get lost, that she never wanted to see him again. That he had broken her heart with this treachery._

_And Anders had walked. Alive but alone._

_Somehow, he appeared out of the blue for Leto’s birth, as if he knew Hawke needed him, delivered the baby in Fenris’ trembling hands, then faded into the night again, like he had never even been there. We had already been living in Rivain by the time; and then little Leto one day started giggling in his crib, and we went inside to see his toys floating in the air above his head. The fact that a child so young had displayed such power was alarming. The boy needed a tutor._

_So Anders walked right back into our lives._

_Now, I spent most of my days in their home, plying with the kids –trust me, three kids pulling on your chest hair freaking hurts, but I wouldn’t change it for the world- but at night I went back at my own home. **Anders stayed**. I will not make any nasty innuendos because I have no proof...but they seemed pretty close. All three of them. Ahem._

_Anyway, maybe it is just my vivid imagination. They were friends, that is for sure, even though Fenris and Anders’ arguments about mages could still give you a headache._

_You know, it just hit me...there were four of us in that bet. Anders, Sebastian, Fenris and me. And in our own way, none of us ever left her..._

_A bet that somehow tied us all to her, one way or another. Fenris had her heart, Sebastian gave her her beautiful daughters, Anders was her closest friend._

_I was...shit, I will admit it. I was the nanny._

_Nug shit. I can hear you laughing. Stop it, my readers, for this sad tale hasn’t turned to a happy fairytale, not yet. We still have a lot to go through to get to that sun-lit house in Rivain, with kids’ joyous giggles echoing down the hall._

_Another bet. Another game. Another betrayal. And another...loss._


	39. Chapter 39

Hawke sighed and rubbed her forehead with a weary hand. The babies kicked hard against her ribs; it was going to be one of those days, it seemed.  She sat back in her chair with another heavy sigh.

Maker, but these past few days had been draining!

As if her constant worry and anxiety weren’t enough, as if making two people was a walk in the park, as if the constant flux of people coming and going hadn’t aggravated her sour mood, Fenris had to be a royal pain in the ass.

He had become her shadow; her silent, stoic, unflinching shadow. He followed her everywhere- monitored her every move, her food, her health; he helped her out of chairs, opened doors for her, watched over her like...like a hawk.

And he was always silent, only saying “I am yours” with that chocolate on gravel voice of his whenever she addressed him.

Maker, he made her knees buckle with the intensity of his green-eyed stare and the gravely, intimate tone of his voice. And then he made her want to turn around and choke him with a pillow; she wanted to scream at him until her voice was hoarse.

She felt the need to bang her head against her desk. She hadn’t wanted a contrite, guilt-ridden Fenris, she hadn’t wanted a slave that walked on eggshells around her, afraid of provoking her anger. She had wanted him like he had been with her that night long ago, when he had held her in his arms while she unburdened her soul, like he had been that night they had spend together: passionate, wild, out of control.

Damn that stupid elf! Hadn't he learned anything?

They needed to fucking sit down and talk! Talk. Scream at each other, let it all out. They need to hash their differences out. The heavy, angry words that had been festering between them needed to be spoken; their guilt needed to be brought out into the open and left to curl up and die under the sun like a disgusting little insect.

A small part of her feared that moment; there was a lot of resentment and frustration festering inside her; there was just so much pain and anger waiting to burst forth from her in cruel, hurtful words. But another part of her was thrilled at the confrontation that she knew was coming; her soul craved for it, instinctively knowing that those words needed to be said if there was any chance of them going forward.  Like an angry boil that needed to be lanced to heal, the pain and the hurt had to be purged from her system; she needed it. Damn it, the tension in the air around them had been growing and growing these past days until the air was thick with it, suffocating. When it came it would be like a wild storm, gaining momentum in the electrified silence before the torrents came-but the rain would be cleansing in its violence.

But when the storm did break, it caught her by complete surprise.

She had thought she would be the first to break...that one day she would just start raging.  As it turned out thought, it was Fenris that broke- and the reason...she should have foreseen it.

* * *

“You stubborn dog!” Anders slapped a hand against the wall. “You must talk to her! Can’t you see how much stress she’s under?”

Fenris paused in his stances, lowered his sword and flicked an annoyed glance to the blond healer.  Determined to ignore him until he went away, he then threw his head back and gazed at the clouds, his eyes narrowed at the bright afternoon sun. A cool breeze ruffled the fallen leaves in the small garden at the back of Hawke’s estate.

Anders felt his ire rising at the elf’s indifference. “She’s running herself rugged; this stress is not good for her or the babies and most of it is caused by you. Maker’s sweaty balls, you need to talk to her! She will not listen to anyone else, but she will listen to you!”

“You presume a great deal, mage,” Fenris growled. “She barely acknowledges my presence, unless it is to glare at me. What makes you think she would even deign to talk to me, let alone  listen to me?”

Anders huffed. “Bull.  I know for a fact that he still has feelings for you.” A little self deprecating smile lifted the corner of his mouth. “Trust me, I tried.”

Fenris’ body suddenly coiled as tight as a spring and he narrowed his green eyes at Anders. “Tried what?” he spat.

“To win her over,” Anders went on, failing to notice the tension that almost started vibrating the other man’s body. “I offered her my heart, my love, my devotion, a father for her babes. A man to warm her bed.  Apart  from a kiss or two, it didn’t get me very far.”

Fenris just blinked at him.

The next thing Anders knew, he found himself pinned to the wall, a hand around his throat constricting his windpipe and keeping him effortlessly off his feet. A white hot flash of pain followed and he gasped for breath; his flailing hands came up and gripped a steely forearm. His heart- there was something wrong with his heart.

“Touch her again,” Fenris growled, bathed in the eerily blue glow of his markings, “try to sway her, and I will rip you heart out and make you eat it.”

And then he squeezed. Anders whimpered and choked, his vision turning black around the edges as his heart struggled to pump blood to his brain but failed; Fenris had a death grip on the delicate organ.

When that hand finally pulled away the sudden lack of pain was just as shocking as its advent, a few seconds ago. Anders slumped to the ground, one hand around his darkening throat, one coming to clutch at his chest as if he wanted to reassure himself that his heart was still there. His breath still wheezed; his throat was slowly swelling and his heart was galloping.

He lifted shocked and frightened eyes to Fenris who was still scowling darkly at him and finally finding his senses, he remembered he had magic he could use. The warm wave of a healing spell rushed over his own body and then he narrowed his eyes at the elf.

Sparks flew from his fingers, and his eyes narrowed in rage. “Oh, you are _so_ going to regret that,” he spat, rising to his feet.

* * *

Hawke was jerked out of her thoughts by the sound of fighting coming from the garden at the back. Her first thought was _finally some action_. The second one was dread. So much depended on this battle; she had been expecting it, dreading it, dreaming about it at night.  She absentmindedly registered some surprise and disbelief; she would have thought Sebastian would be more subtle.

Barely stopping to put on her slippers, she grabbed a sword from the stand near the wall and rushed towards the sounds of clanging weapons and ...fireballs?

She pushed the door open, barely aware that there other people rushing in after her, and came to a screeching halt as she took in the sight in front of her.

Anders and Fenris; bloodied, their clothes singed off, a huge broadsword swinging and a staff twirling. Now ice, and Fenris’ skin being prickled in a thousand places by tiny icicles; a backhand across Anders’ face, strong enough to crack teeth and make the mage drop to his knees. A blast of magic; an elf flying backwards into her rosebushes.

“My money is on the elf,” a voice mumbled behind her, and another answered, “Ten silvers on the mage.”

“THAT IS ENOUGH!” she roared, finally snapping out of her shocked silence, when Fenris lit up his markings and ghosted, moving with that unnatural speed of hers towards Anders, who dropped into a battle stance and cast a glyph on the ground in front of him.

Both men froze in place. Fenris’ markings dimmed and Anders, looking like a guilty boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar, kicked some dirt on his glowing glyph, as if to hide it from view.

“Any particular reason why I nearly went into premature labour from the fright?” She crossed her arms against her chest and tapped her foot. Anders had the good grace to look chastised; but Fenris...Fenris was still fuming. “Fenris?” she turned to him. “Care to explain?”

The elf that came to stand inches from her didn’t have that stoic, expressionless mask on his face anymore; his eyes were not cast downwards with contrition.  They were seething, vibrantly alive with what seemed to be possessiveness and rage.

“You are mine,” he said. Just that. His eyes locked with hers and time seemed to stand still. She didn't even realise that the people in the garden filed out, Anders following them meekly. A gust of wind blew around them, throwing a lock of her dark hair into her face, and she absentmindedly pushed it out of her eyes, her amber gaze still locked with his.

She was still a bit shocked, so his words didn't immediately register. But when they did, anger –thick and acrid- rose to choke her. “Me? The little whore that screwed around Kirkwall? Are you sure you want me, Fenris?” she spat, watching in glee as he flinched. “Don’t I get to rot and die anymore?”

He threw his arms in the air. “What do you want me to say, Hawke? That I am sorry? Words cannot express how sorry I am. Is that enough for you?”

“No!” she hissed, taking one step forward. “No! You ripped my heart out, Fenris, and all I ever did was accept you, and trust you, and love you!”

“And yet you gave yourself to the Prince out of spite!” he accused back, his eyes blazing.

It was her turn to flinch. “I am sorry,” she ground out. “And...for him turning against you. It was my fault.”

He swore luridly, then lowered his head. The hardest part, the accusations, was over. He had been dreading this moment for weeks.

It wasn’t as hard as he’d thought it would be. Maybe then the next part, admitting his feelings to her, baring his heart and soul, pleading for another chance, wouldn’t be that tough either. He swallowed hard, then drew in a deep breath to gather his courage. He took a few faltering steps back. Dreading that he would see rejection in her eyes, he caressed a rose on one of her prized rose bushes, thumbing the soft petal while he tried to find his voice. 

 “When they had me in that dark cell, Hawke,” his voice broke, “all that kept me sane...all that kept me fighting...was you. I knew you would come. I knew you wouldn’t forsake me.” He turned towards her, his heart on his sleeve. “I never stopped....I never stopped loving you. Not even when you gave yourself to the Prince, not even when I learnt you were expecting his children.”

His words gave her pause, made the anger inside her deflate like a punctured balloon. “You..you did? You do?” it was all she could stutter, her mind reeling with the realisation he had just said he loved her. That he had always loved her, and had never stopped.

“It was never you I didn't trust...it was myself.” He gave her a pleading, sorrowful look. “I pray that you...might understand.”

Hawke shook her head, finally realising what had led them here, realisation widening her eyes. She hadn't trusted that the reason Fenris had left her was the one he had given her; she’d thought it had been her that was insufficient. He hadn't trusted that Hawke loved him; he’d thought that the reason she had wanted him was just to gain experience.

They had both not trusted themselves to be worthy of love. And they had both paid the price.

 “I think...I think I understand, that I always understood, Fenris. But...” her lips twisted in into a sad frown, “I also think it might be too late for us.”

He jerked then rushed to her again, slipping his hands in her hair, holding her head up to him.

“No. NO. I will not accept that.” His eyes were blazing with both determination and passion. “You are mine. Mine.”

Caught in his steely grasp, she could do nothing but look deep, deep into those moss green eyes of his, into his very soul, left open and unguarded for her. She read love and desire in them, she saw the very reflection of her own emotions; pain clashing with love, despair battling hope, anger struggling against tenderness.

“Perhaps,” she finally said, doubt and mistrust still heavy inside her, still holding her back.

He moved one step forward, until the only thing separating them was her bulging belly. “Not perhaps. You are mine. Definitely, irrevocably, eternally mine.”

His eyes dropped to her belly, and then a hand rested on top of it. “These are mine too.”

Her eyes widened. Maker. Her greatest fear, the biggest obstacle between them, that he would never be able to accept her babies, gone, with just four words.

“Nobody will take you, or your... _our_ children away from me.”

She sagged with relief, hope, love. Then anger once again rose inside her, the old pain that had been festering inside her rose its ugly head to push the pleasure of his words away.

“It’s not as easy as that, Fenris,” she whispered, then looked away. “There is too much pain between us. Too much anger.” She swallowed hard; her heart was bleeding inside her, asking her to just give in, just forget everything and be with the man she so desperately still loved. But her mind was rebelling, calling up memories of his cruel words, of rejection and heartbreak.

Fenris drew a deep, shuddering breath. His heart and future and all his dreams clutched desperately in his two hands, he knew there was no turning back; he had to gather up all his courage and see this to its –hopefully not bitter- end.

“Do you still love me?” he grasped her forearms, forcing her eyes to return to his face, looking deep into her feline gaze for the answer to his question. He gasped when her eyes grew luminous with moisture, watched enthralled as one shiny tear pooled then slipped over her sooty eyelashes down over her cheek.

“I do,” her voice was soft, barely a whisper. “I always will. But I don’t trust you.”

Her words caused an avalanche of conflicting emotions inside him: hope, joy, and overwhelming love. Then despair, anger at his own self, guilt. He lowered his head; she was right, he had done everything in his power to lose her trust. And love without trust was...nothing. It had no hope to grow, no hope to endure.

He gently pulled his hand from her belly and then looked around him to the garden that was slowly dying in the onset of winter.

“Love is like your rose bushes, I have come to learn,” he said. “They need to be nurtured, carefully tended to, for the flowers to bloom.” He gave her a small, crooked smile, heartbreaking in its sadness, before taking her hand in his. “But they also must be ruthlessly pruned; the dead wood cut away, the thorns removed. Otherwise, they will choke in their own beauty.”

She looked at him for a few long moments then a smile crossed her lips. A small laugh bubbled up. “Damn you. I should never have told you how much I love flowers; you keep doing this to me, and you make it impossible for me to hate you.” Her fingers squeezed gently around his, making his breath catch. “Damn you.”

He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it gently. “I will find a way to trim away the dead wood, Hawke,” he solemnly swore. “I will earn your trust again.”

She regarded his bent head with a small fond smile. She nodded her head in response to his words, her heart already lighter, her anxiety easing. A weight seemed to have lifted from her shoulders. She looked at her heart, examining it closely, and saw the first of her hurts falling away, like a dead branch that had been carefully pruned from a withered rose bush.

“You owe me ten silver coins, Anders,” she heard Isabela’s amused voice through the door behind her. “And get me a tissue, will you?”

Laughter echoed, then Anders’ grumble. “Damned poetic elf.”

Then he, too, sniffled.

* * *

_I wasn’t there. Damn. I can’t believe I missed that. I arrived later, and was shocked to find Fenris sans shirt, in the living room, with Hawke and Orana tending to his scrapes and bruises. Anders...was being taken care off too, in another room...ahem, by Isabela._

_Don’t ask me to go into details. Please. And pass me the mind bleach._

_I listened to a detailed account of what had been said and done, and damn it, I almost asked for a tissue myself. Anders had said it right: damned poetic elf!_

_And of course, Fenris did find a way to earn her trust again. It’s pretty damned hard not to start trusting the man that nearly killed himself for you, or saved the lives of your unborn children. Or took care of them for days and weeks on end, while you recovered._

_Not a lot of things changed after that, at least not drastically. Fenris was still her shadow. Hawke was still the pregzilla of nightmares. Isabela was sleeping with Anders. I kept my ear to the ground and my eyes on them. We started playing cards once a week at her estate, and Anders and Fenris bickered like old fishwives._

_But, hey, get this: Cullen arrived one day, made a remark about Anders and how such a dangerous mage should not have been granted clemency, and should be thrown in the darkest cell in the Gallows for all his years. Before Anders could react, Fenris had stepped forward and casually informed Cullen that Anders was a friend, and unless he wanted to draw swords over it, he’d better not insult one of his friends again._

_I don’t know who was more shocked, Anders or Cullen. Or Fenris himself._

_I wish I could tell you that Hawke and Fenris went back to a normal relationship again. I can’t, because they didn't and because they never had one to begin with. I think I did interrupt a kiss one night.  Anders must have interrupted something more, because he took Fenris aside and told him he had better not try any monkey business; Hawke’s pregnancy was high risk with her carrying twins and the haemorrhages at the beginning._

_Fenris had scoffed and told him not to worry._

_It wasn’t that they didn't want each other, trust me. Sometimes they would give each other looks that could make my chest hair curl...the sexual tension made the air around them spark and crackle. Anyway, the point was moot; Anders had forbidden it._

_Two more months passed like this, and Hawke was now almost seven months along. The belly appeared in the room three seconds before she did, I swear it._

_I received word of a strange elf asking around for Fenris; I learned of a country estate outside the city that the locals feared to approach; dead bodies of young elves started cropping up around Kirkwall too._

_I had a bad feeling about all that, but I didn't want to worry Hawke. I guess we had all gotten a bit complacent, after waiting for so long._

_Then Fenris burst in one day, telling us he had received news of his long lost sister._

_And warning bells started ringing._

 


	40. Chapter 40

Anders had a concerned, thoughtful look on his face. Hawke bit her lip and studied his face, looking for any indication that what he had found worried him; her blood ran as cold as ice in her veins.

Fenris, standing right next to her, elbowed the healer in the ribs, hard, then nodded towards her. Her face was pale and her eyes were glued to the healer’s face; she seemed to be holding her breath.

“What?...” Anders growled to Fenris then took a look at her and his eyes softened. “Oh. Don’t worry Hawke, it’s nothing.”

Fenris just growled. The blond mage rolled his eyes. “Tell your watchdog not to growl to me, Hawke,” he muttered, running his hand over her distended abdomen again. “He’s not helping.”

It was Hawke that growled next, bringing a small smile to Anders’ face. “Don’t talk about him like that!”

The mage straightened up looking at them both with an expression that was both amused and annoyed. Maker, he was still so jealous of the position the elf had slowly once again been gaining by her side; he had bulldozed his way into her life again, meeting her distrust and reluctance with stoic, unmovable determination. What if Hawke didn't like the idea of him bunking in the room next to her? He would do it, and her anger –explosive and volatile as always- did not matter. What if she bulked when he opened doors for her and walked right beside her everywhere she went? What if she screamed that he was crowding her, that she needed time? He just gave her puppy eyes and caressed her cheek, telling her not to ask him to let her out of his sight, because he just couldn’t.

It was almost comical to see her anger melt away and a soft look come into her eyes. No one could disarm her like he did.

Damn him.

He could see that Hawke was slowly warming up towards him again, the wall of bitterness and mistrust around her heart cracking more and more every day. He could see it in the way her eyes sometimes trailed after him with care; he could see that light of love and hope light up her eyes again when he was not looking. And today, she had asked for him to be in the room while Anders examined her, and didn't pull her hand back when Fenris clutched it in both of his as he examined her.

Anders sighed. Maker, he still loved her, he always would, but she had said it many times and he had finally let the message seep in: Hawke was a one man woman. When she gave her heart it was forever. And she loved Fenris, despite what he had done, despite the hurt, despite the elf’s horrid behaviour.

Anders was jealous; what had the damned elf had done to deserve love like this? He had to learn and do it himself.

Isabela and he had been sharing a bed almost every night, and he had found some measure of comfort in the lusty, bawdy sensuality of the pirate. If he could not have love, at least he was having spectacular sex. It was something.

Fenris cleared his throat, snapping him out of his pensive thoughts. Hawke was holding on to his hand like a lifeline.

“Don’t look so worried, little mama,” Anders crooned to her, “your little darlings are doing just fine. It’s you I’m worried about.”

Hawke relaxed, while Fenris tensed so suddenly you’d think someone had zapped him with lightning. It was Hawke’s turn to hold his hand while it shook, and Anders tender heart could not help but go soft and awww at the sight.

“Speak. What is wrong with her?”

“Relax, elf. I’m just a little concerned. The babies are almost eight months along, and they haven’t begun to turn yet. If they don’t soon, we will have a difficult birth in our hands. That’s all. Nothing I can’t handle.”

Fenris paled to a ghostly white. “How difficult?” he whispered, his voice lost to panic.

“Not overly so,” Anders run his hand over her abdomen again. “Twin births are usually easier for the mother, because the individual size of the babies is smaller, but her pelvis is narrow, and if the babies come in breach...”

He raised his head at the sound of panicked, rapid breaths. Hawke was running her hand along Fenris’ forearm, trying to soothe him.

Damn, Anders didn't know whether to laugh or offer his assistance. The elf was hyperventilating.

“Breathe, Fenris,” he said. “Calm down. She’ll be alright. Thousands of women give birth every day, and I will be there. If I may be allowed to sing my own praises, I am a damned fine healer. I won’t let anything happen to her or the babies.”

He watched in amusement as the usually stoic warrior almost had a panic attack at the thought of Hawke being in danger during her labour. It would be hilarious-if it wasn’t so endearing.

Another chip formed in his I-hate-that-elf armour. He patted Fenris’ back and clasped his shoulder. “Don’t worry, my friend,” he said. When the elf raised panicked and surprised eyes to his face, he smiled reassuringly. “I’ll keep her safe for you.”

* * *

Fenris groaned and resisted the urge to slip his hands in his hair and yank –hard. Everybody had something to say, some opinion to express; this was getting them nowhere.

“All I’m saying is that I smell a rat,” Varric mumbled once again.

“Fenris has the right to check it out; his sister is probably the last connection he has to his past, that’s all I’m saying.”

Varric shot Aveline a disbelieving look.

“So you don’t think it might be a trap?”

“Even I know that,” Merrill piped in. “Of course it’s a trap.”

Isabela slammed her hand on the table. “This is war, not a family reunion. We can’t twiddle out thumps while Fenris and his sister have tea and scones and exchange tales of scabby knees and pulling pigtails. We should be investigating those rumours about the disappearing elves. Sebastian might be right under our noses and we are standing here, scratching our asses and talking about Fenris’ sister.”

“Ah, yes,” Varric sighed again. “And the aroma of rat intensifies. The dead elves. Sebastian might indeed be in town. Fucking glorious.”

One of Isabela’s rogues spoke up. “I tried to slip in, but the place is heavily guarded. Most of the guards do have a Starkhaven accent though.”

Merrill spoke up. “But Fenris should see his sister! It might not be a trap. Wouldn’t it be wonderful for him to find her again? She’s his only family!”

And the argument started again, going around in circles.

Hawke had been the only one that hadn't said anything.  She was just sitting there, her eyes focused on Fenris, taking in his agitation, his frustrated pacing. Her heart ached for him; for all intents and purposes, this sudden reappearance of his long lost sister was a trap by Danarius. And they already knew Danarius and Sebastian were somehow working together, or that at least the Prince had contacted the Magister about Fenris’ whereabouts. It wasn’t exactly a stretch of the imagination to assume they had both made their way to Kirkwall after she had snatched Fenris from out of Sebastian’s grasp.

But she could not find it in her heart to refuse him the chance to be reunited with his sister. She knew how much the loss of his memory still affected him, how desperately he wanted to recapture some sense of who he had been before the ritual. She had this awful suspicion that he wouldn’t really like what he learned, if anything, but that was his choice. She could not stop him.

When he had barged in asking for her assistance all she had been able to do was touch a hand against her huge belly. At almost eight months along, she was unable to help him and that was killing her. The people around her were her friends, they had fought at her side for years; but she could not bring herself to completely trust them with this. Varric and Anders had undermined her trust with that bet; she had forgiven them, but not forgotten. Isabela had betrayed her with the tome, leaving her to sort out the Qunari mess on her own; she still resented her for that, although she did her best to overcome it.

Merrill and Aveline were the only ones that have never hurt her, never given her any reason to doubt them; but send a blood mage against a magister?

And Aveline was newly pregnant. Only Donnic and Hawke had been privy to the news.

She squared her shoulders, heaved a huge calming breath of air and then spoke up, the room going suddenly silent, squabbles and arguments dying down all around her.

“Fenris,” she addressed the highly agitated elf. “What do _you_ want to do?”

He came to a complete and abrupt halt as he was pacing, and his hands that were skimming through his hair dropped to his sides into tightly clenched fists.

“I wish to stand by your side,” he closed his eyes, kissing his dream of regaining his past goodbye. “It is too dangerous; it could be, no, it most definitely is, a trap. We cannot  endanger you by splitting our forces.”

The room grew even more silent, as if every breath was held. Eyes darted back and forth between the elf and the heavily pregnant woman that was gazing at him with caring eyes.

Fenris raised his eyes from his feet to look at her, and she bit her lip; he could see that she was struggling with herself. The practical, strategic part of her brain was telling her not to fall for an obvious trap; the part of her that bled with compassion for a man that had hurt her, but whom she still desperately loved, was telling her to assist him in any way she could.

His eyes widened as she turned away from him, her chin rising in that stubborn, determined way of hers; he already knew her decision.

“Varric, Anders, Isabela, Merrill. Take some men and go to the Hanged Man with Fenris. Bring him back alive, and be careful.”

Fenris protested, kicking himself inside; he should never have breathed a word about the message he had received from his sister. All sort of morbid scenarios were going through his mind; Danarius would recapture him without her there; Danarius would fail but he would come back to find her gone; Danarius would recapture him and Sebastian would get his hands on her. Maker. The images unravelling in his head were the stuff of nightmares.

All his protests were for naught in the end. Once Hawke made up her mind, nothing could dissuade her. Seeing his worry, she sought to ease his mind, by agreeing to go into hiding, to retreat to the summer mansion that was part of the Amell estate, taking the rest of their forces with them. Anders was worried about her having to ride the short distance to the hunting lodge in the foothills of Soundermount, but the others supported the decision and Hawke had waved his worries aside –she was pregnant, not an invalid. She would ride in a coach if she had to.

As he prepared to leave for the Hanged Man, Fenris took one good, long look at the faces of his companions that would come with him. Anders, Merrill, Varric, Isabela. Each of them preparing their weapons, tightening clasps and checking armour, the mages stocking up on lyrium potions, the rogues going through their poisons and stamina draughts. Maker. He had _friends_. Friends that would fight and die to keep him safe, despite their differences, despite the often callous way he had treated them. The blood mage raised her head and smiled at him with that cheery, optimistic smile of hers, and he felt an unwanted surge of regret; he had called the petite elf every derogatory name under the sun and still she was ready to defend him. She was a blood mage. She was a friend. His mind reeled as he struggled to reconcile the two notions.

Hawke had led him to strange places. If anyone had told him a few years back that a blood mage would be getting ready to fight for him, and that he would be standing here, chewing his lip as he worried about her, he would have laughed till tears ran down his face.

Isabela only fought for her own reasons, the ultimate example of selfishness. Varric never got involved unless there was a profit, monetary or otherwise, to be made. Anders despised him.

But here they all were ready to protect him. Maybe it was for Hawke’s sake, but maybe it was for his own sake, as well. And that made him proud, made his heart swell with gratitude.

He took a look at Aveline, all decked out in her heavy plate, sword planted firmly on the ground, a scowl on her face.

“Aveline...” he just said and the Guard Captain nodded once, fully understanding without him having to voice another word. The woman would fight to her bitter end to keep Hawke safe, her eyes promised him, but it did little to ease his worry.

“Fenris.” she just replied, and they both bowed their heads to each other.

Hawke rolled her eyes. “Go, Fenris,” she urged him, her eyes determined, her chin held high, her shoulders squared. One hand was resting on her belly, as if to reassure herself she was making the right choice. Fenris’ heart bled; he could see what the decision to send him to the Hanged Man was costing her. She was acting tough and brave, but she was quivering inside. And yet...she’d hidden her fear and urged him on, even commanded him to go reunite with his sister- she knew what it meant for him and was willing to put him first. She was desperate to put him first.

Maker, he didn't know what he had done to deserve her, if anything, but he would do his damndest to become worthy of her.

Fenris crossed the room to her in long, determined strides, wrapped his arms around her until the only thing coming between them was the mound of her belly and bent his head to kiss her; it was a desperate, urgent kiss, full of fire and want, not the soft, tender kisses he had given her over the past few months whenever she had allowed it. It was a claiming and a promise, a statement of intent, a pledge; he would come back, he would survive, she would have their babies, and then she’d be his. His, but not like they were now, in limbo, not sure about where they stood. She would be his in every way, his mate, his friend, his woman, the mother of the babies he would raise as his and all the children that would come from his own seed.

He would not take no for an answer, he made that perfectly clear as she mewled under the pressure of his kiss, as she yielded and surrender to the pleasure of his tongue stroking hers, his mouth taking her like a conqueror.

As they parted from their kiss, their breaths panting, he grasped the back of her neck and touched his forehead to hers, trying to find the courage to look in her eyes and see her reaction. When he finally did, his heart stopped in his chest, then started thumbing with a resounding kick against his ribs.

She was smiling, and her eyes were sparkling like yellow diamonds.

“It took you long enough,” she just said and then pushed him towards the door.

* * *

A lone elf, with red hair and huge green eyes, was sitting pensively at a table. A dagger of pain went through his mind, as a memory, sharp and vibrant, slammed into his head.

“It really is you,” the elf said, her eyes downcast.

“Varania? I...I remember you,” Fenris stuttered. “We played together in our master’s courtyard while mother worked. You...you called me...”

“Leto,” she smoothly supplied. “That is your name.”

Varric slapped an arm across his midriff. “Elf. I think we found the source of that lovely aroma or rat. We’d better scram.”

Fenris turned to see a robed figure coming down the stairs. He knew that old withered face, he knew those wicked, cruel eyes, that expression of smug superiority. The face of his nightmares was looking down on him, a twisted smile on his leathery face.

“Predictable as always, my little Fenris,” he said, then his face was split by a sadistic, malicious smile. “How lovely to see you again, my pet.”

Varania’s eyes were sad. “I’m sorry it came to this, Leto.”

Fenris whirled on his sister. “You led him here!”

“Now, now, Fenris,” the magister admonished him, his voice condescending as if he was scolding a petulant child. “Do not blame your sister. She only did what every good Imperial citizen would.”

Fenris’ voice was thick with hate. “I never wanted these filthy markings, Danarius. But I won’t let you kill me to get them.”

The depraved laugh of the magister made everybody’s blood run a bit colder, and Fenris drew back, just as his companions all took a step forward to stand at his back. “How little you know, my pet,” Danarius said. “And where is your mistress, the Champion of Kirkwall?”

“Fenris is not a slave! He does not belong to anyone,” Merrill shouted, “and Hawke is not his mistress.”

“Well, not in that sense, anyway,” Varric mumbled and Fenris felt a little absurd bubble of laughter climbing up his throat. Maker bless the dwarf. He was just about ready for his anger and hate to overcome him, but he was suddenly reminded he was fighting for more than just his life and freedom; he was fighting for Hawke too, and the promise of their future together. He could even forego his life and freedom for that.

And suddenly the monster standing in front of him didn't seem all that frightening. He was suddenly nothing more than a twisted, malignant old man, who pouted like a child because his toy had been taken away from him. Sure, he could command demons and abominations, but he had nothing but hirelings at his back.

Fenris had _friends_.

“When this is all over,” Danarius turned to him again, “I will deal with your new mistress, my pet. I have promised her future husband a compliant and submissive little wife; I will enjoy bending her to Prince Sebastian’s will.”

“Over my dead body, Danarius!” Fenris raged, the image making him see red, incensing him to no end.

The magister sighed dramatically. “The word is ‘master’,” he corrected Fenris, and gave the signal for his men to attack.

* * *

_The fight was gruesome, let me tell you. First the hired guards that asshole magister had brought along, then skeletons and demons and abominations._

_Then the fucking asswipe himself._

_Merrill saved the day; she was a blood mage, so she was able to dispel most of the blood magic spells he used on us, trying to control us, or drain our strength. Anders was nothing short of spectacular, too, healing left and right, casting spells of protection and zapping the magister at every chance; the right to shoot lightning at fools and all that._

_Even Justice came out and played, when a demon cornered Isabela._

_I will not blow my own horn, but yeah, Bianca was a force to be reckoned with, as she always is._

_But...you should have seen the elf. It still sends chills down my spine. I had seen that damned elf fight before, I had seen him ravage battlefields. I had seen him slice through enemies like they were warm butter with that huge sword of his. I had seen Fenris in the heat of battle, and I thought I’d seen his fury and rage too._

_As it turned out, all I had seen was a mildly annoyed Fenris. I had glimpsed, we all had, at only one small percentage of how vicious, how dangerous, how violent he could get._

_Trust me. I wouldn't want to cross that elf. Like ever. I’d rather have cut my own balls off- anything than have to face Fenris while he was like that._

_That was no battle. That was a massacre. I had never seen a man fight like this before and I never did again. Fenris fought not like his life depended on it, but as if the future of all life on the planet depended on him. He wasn’t fighting for himself; he was fighting for all he was in danger of losing._

_I have found in my experience, my devoted readers, that if you threaten a man’s life he will fight. But if you threaten what he holds dear, his love, his wife, his children, his future, he will not just fight._

_He will bring down the rage of the gods upon your head._

_And that is what Fenris did._

_But it only took just one moment for shit to thicken; Fenris tried to assist me (I say it to my everlasting chagrin) and that asswipe of a magister, that son of a diseased bitch, slipped away._

_When we realised, after defeating the rest of the demons and abominations, Fenris’ eyes went wide with a panic so total, so complete,  that my heart froze. He didn't even spare a glance to his treacherous sister; he just threw his head back and howled._

_“HAWKE!”_

_Fucking nugshit! Hawke! She was in danger!_

_Anders grabbed me and Merrill by our clothes, heaved us to our feet and exchanged a terror-stricken look with Isabela._

_He only said one word, but we all obeyed._

  _RUN_


	41. Chapter 41

 

Fenris had known fear in his life. In fact, most of his life had been a series of sharp, panicky moments, moments where he’d had to grit his teeth and call upon years of experience in controlling his reactions, and the hate and rage that until recently had blackened his heart, to pull him through.

He could still remember the moment when the agonizing pain after the ritual had subsided enough for him to open his eyes and wonder where he was and who he was. The blind, sheer panic of that moment, when his own name eluded him, when he had no recollection of who he was, could still send chills running down his spine.

He could still remember days and months and unremitting years of living in fear of his master’s vicious temper, of his mercurial moods, of the maliciousness and cruelty of his vices. He could still remember waking up every morning fearing what the day would bring.

The terror of being free was even worse. He could still recall, with perfect clarity, that the moment that the ship carrying Danarius away from Seheron started fading in the horizon, he had been seized by an almost paralyzing fear; his master was gone, and he was free, and terrified of it.

Running away after killing the Fog Warriors, the fear had made him nearly gag. What was he to do, where was he to go? What was he supposed to do now that he was free? The world was so scary that he’d caught himself feeling an abhorrent feeling of nostalgia for his master and the comfort of his estate. Then he’d felt sickened by it. He felt like a dog missing the master that kicked it and starved it, but whose boot he longed to lick one more time.

That was the greatest fear of all, that he would never stop thinking like a slave.

Oh, no, Fenris had not been a stranger to fear. The hunters breathing down his neck, the uncertainty of being in a group of people he could not trust but couldn’t afford not to, the icy hand of dread running chilly hands down his spine when he started realising he was actually feeling something very different from distaste for someone else. And then the fear and the excitement of his newly-minted feelings for Hawke; the fear he had ruined everything –that stupid bet- his terror at realising he had hurt her more than any man ever could. His capture by Sebastian. His hands being held over a sizzling, smoking bucket of hot oil. The certainty he would die in that dark cell. The thought that he would never see her again.

Oh, no. Fenris knew fear. He knew it intimately, like an old friend; he knew how to use it to strengthen his resolve, how not to let it paralyse him, how to use it to fuel himself to fight even harder, even more fearlessly.

But this...this was not fear. This was not just terror. This was so above it all, so much worse than anything he’d ever labelled as ‘fear’ that he started wondering if he’d really ever known the true meaning of the word. Chills that racked his spine were running up and down his vertebra as he ran, ran, ran. He had no sense of direction, nothing but blurry images –a gate, a tree here, a rock- registered. Anders turned over his shoulder and yelled something to him, but the overwhelming hammering of his heartbeat in his ears could let no sounds in.

Only the thump thump thump of his heart, galloping with petrifying, excruciating fear.

And one word in his head, repeating itself again and again and again.

 _Hawke. Hawke. Hawke_.

His breath was sawing in his lungs and his feet felt a few tons heavy, but he ran, desperately, as if all the demons in the Fade were behind him, hoping, praying, beseeching every god that had ever existed that she would be safe.

Isabela had raced back to Hawke’s estate to gather reinforcements, and then alert the Grand Cleric and Meredith. They needed templars, she had reasoned - as many templars as possible to bring Danarius down. It had seemed like a good idea at that point. But now Varric was left behind, and soon so was Merrill, because they had sustained wounds in the battle, and Anders had spared only a minimum of energy to heal them. It was just Fenris and Anders running, two men against a magister and Sebastian, and the forces the Prince no doubt had brought along.

They were probably running to their deaths.

Fenris would never have believed it, but some of his mounting anxiety lessened a bit as the mage fell into step next to him and smiled tersely, his amber eyes wide with the panic he struggled to hide. Good. He wasn’t the only one scared out of his wits then. A new surge of determination sprang inside him. He would keep Hawke safe, and if he fell, Anders would be there to take good care of her. As if on cue, blue light glinted in the mage’s eyes.

Hard to believe, but he found himself thanking the Maker Anders was an abomination.

Justice was on their side. In every sense.

* * *

Varric grasped Merrill’s arm and pulled her to her feet, groaning in pain from the half-healed wound on his side. Blondie and Broody rounded a turn in the road and disappeared.

“Come on, Daisy,” he cajoled the breathless elf. “We have to leg it, precious.”

“I can’t...I..” Merrill brought a hand to her scalp and it came away bloody. “My head is spinning.”

“Well. Nug shit.”

Merrill offered a feeble smile, then her face hardened and she wobbled to her feet. “Run, Varric,” she pushed at him frantically. “Go. I’ll be alright.”

The dwarf took one look in the direction the two men had disappeared, then one at Merrill, who slumped down to her knees again.

“GO!” she ordered him, and heaving a deep breath, Varric started running again, one hand putting pressure to his side.

Leaving Merrill behind hadn’t seemed like a good idea at the time. Little did he know, if he hadn't, they would have lost Hawke forever.

* * *

When Varric stumbled into the lodge, he already knew he would not like what he’d see. The first indication was the bodies of their guards, strewn around, bloody and twisted into weird shapes. He bent to examine one of them, and thumbed the feathers on the arrow protruding from his body. Sebastian’s arrows.

Well. Nug shit, whole heaps of it.

He stepped through the threshold to a flurry of activity. Anders was busy over Aveline, his whole body glowing blue, muttering curses as he tried to stem blood from a multitude of gashes. The Guard Captain’s left leg was twisted in an unnatural angle and her red hair was matted with blood from a deep wound on her forehead.

Fenris was tearing the place apart, swearing and yelling, breaking furniture and hurling the pieces away as if they were made of paper. Varric observed him, the way his muscles bunched, the way he bloodied his hands beating the very walls down. Suddenly, the elf threw his head back and roared Hawke’s name, the sound deafening, the tears on his face breaking Varric’s heart.

“You’re not helping, elf,” he calmly said and cringed when those green eyes turned to him, blind with anguish and rage. He took one step back, suddenly certain that Fenris would rip his heart out in his rage, but then the elf slumped, his markings dimmed down, and his shoulders dropped.

“I have lost her,” he said, his voice broken, and crumpled down to the floor.

* * *

Merrill moved out of the road, and rested her head against a tree. Creators, her head was throbbing, and she felt faint. But her heart was bleeding; she was so worried for Hawke, for her babies, for what her friends would find when they reached the lodge.

She sighed, and then dug in her belt for any health potions that might have escaped the battle with the magister, a shudder going down her spine at the memory of the man.

Was this what blood magic did to people? Creators, was this what she would become?

She felt sick at the thought.

She curled up under the tree, and sipped the health potion; soon, when her head stopped pounding, she would get up and try to find them. Just a little more. She would close her eyes, to rest them, just for one more second. Then she would get up and help Hawke and the da’lens, she would...her eyes closed without her knowing it.

“This way,” she heard a voice to her right, and she opened her eyes with a gasp, ready to cry out to her companions, when she realised...she didn't know this voice. She went deathly, perfectly still, and then moved to her right, where the heavy shadow of the tree could better conceal her, pulling her dagger from her waist and keeping it close to her wrist.

Raiders? Slavers? Who could it be?

“Damn you, old man,” another voice said. “Did you have to lead us through every bush and thicket from here to Starkhaven?”

Merrill nearly gasped out loud. Sebastian. She knew that voice, that accent. It was Sebastian!

“Keep still, wench!” another voice shouted and then the owner of the voice yelped. “She bit me! The bitch bit me through the gag!”

“She is a spirited little thing, isn’t she?” a cold voice jeered.

Danarius. That was Danarius. Merrill sucked in another deep breath. By the Dread Wolf, they had Hawke!

The voices started trailing away, following the steep, hard-to-access paths running along the road, shaded by trees. Damn them! They planned to slip away, and leave no tracks. And they were dragging Hawke along, probably tied up, heavily pregnant on those steep, rocky paths, where she could slip and fall and lose those precious babies. Oh, by Elgan’nan, she wouldn’t allow that!

She got up on wobbly legs and slipped into the trees, then found a ledge of rock and the steep path that was only suited to mountain goats. She heaved herself up with an effort that nearly left her faint, and then, as she was ready to follow them, realised that she had to find a way for Fenris and the others to follow her.

She bit her lip, then a small smile lit up her face for a second. Fenris detested it when she slit her wrist to call her magic, but she had a feeling he wouldn’t this time. Determined, and not even giving a second thought to how much blood she was going to lose or if her already taxed body could afford it, she slit her wrist and painted an arrow on the rock with her blood.

Then she called upon all her skills as a Dalish to silently follow the group of men ahead of her, stopping from time to time to paint another arrow on the stone.

* * *

Isabela’s heart had never raced as hard as it did when she finally reached the Hawke estate to inform the men they had left there as a decoy of what had happened. She counted heads; three elves, two rogues. One of Aveline’s guards.

No templars.

She didn't think anything of it; she knew two templars had followed Hawke to the lodge. But suddenly, just as she was crossing into the Keep to find Donnic, the sight of one of the templars in the Chantry courtyard made her jolt. A thought slammed into her head.

Cullen had left three templars at the estate that morning. Where was the third one?

Her eyes narrowed. Something stunk there. A rat of unusual size, as Varric would say.

She avoided the man, slipping into the shadows and watched him more carefully. Was it her, or did he seem to be paying extra attention to who went in and out of the Keep today? And yes, _yes_ , he was paying more attention to the guards than to regular citizens.

Why would a templar be guarding the guards?

She was cautious now, deeply troubled. The funny little feeling at the pit of her stomach was screaming at her that something was wrong and it intensified when she reached the barracks and saw another templar stationed at the door, trying to look as if he was there by mistake.

She looked around frantically. Maker, they didn't have time for shit like this. A guard was approaching, and Isabela sauntered next to him and brazenly cupped his groin. When he jolted she smiled her best seductive smile and told him she was up for some company and added that it looked like a damned fine cock that he had there.

And then casually asked him if there was any way she could sneak into his bunk.                             

* * *

Donnic was going through some paperwork that Aveline had not been able to take care of lately, when the door opened and Isabela snuck in, quickly closing it and bolting it behind her.

“Serah Isabela...” he was left staring at the pirate with his quill held up in the air. “Wh...”

“Donnic. Be quiet. I need you to listen and then I need you to help,” she interrupted. “Can you get a message to Cullen?”

Donnic raised his eyebrow. “What is wrong?”

“The question, my good man, is what isn’t.”

* * *

Aveline moaned again, then grunted as Anders forcefully put her broken leg into its right position and cast a healing spell over her.

“The te.. mmmm...plars...” she breathed, her voice barely heard.

Fenris raised his head. For the last few minutes, he had been sitting on the floor, his legs drawn up and his head buried between them. Varric wasn’t certain if he was crying, swearing, lamenting, or doing all three at the same time. But that breathy moan from Aveline made them both snap their heads up and pay attention.

Anders passed a hand over Aveline’s torso, looking for internal bleeding. He suddenly drew in a gasping breath.

“Maker, you fool! You’re pregnant? Why didn't you say something?”

The word woke Fenris up, effectively jerking him out of the stupor he had been in since the moment he realised Hawke had been taken. Pregnant. Aveline was pregnant, and yet she had risked her life to help Hawke. And here he was wallowing in grief, allowing precious moments to slip away. He dug deep inside himself for control, took a deep breath, then pushed his grief and fear away, reaching instead for anger and rage.

If anything happened to his Hawke, to his very pregnant Hawke, he would kill Sebastian and Danarius in the most brutal, gruesome way ever. He would rip them apart inch by inch, rip out all their organs and feed them to the dogs-if there was a dog anywhere that would agree to eat something so disgusting.

“Tem...plars...” Aveline moaned again. “Betrayed us.”

Anders went still, and then exchanged a look with Fenris. The elf nodded to him once, then sheathed his sword and motioned for Varric.

“Can you keep up?”

Varric’s only answer was to cock Bianca.

Aveline opened her eyes for the first time to come face to face with the green eyes of the elf. There was anger in those eyes, sadness, but most of all resolve and determination. Fenris was calm; he had made up his mind, he had made his decisions. He was going to hunt down the men that took Hawke away and die trying to protect her.

He ran a hand through Aveline’s blood-crusted hair, making the guard captain draw in a surprised breath. Fenris had never voluntarily touched any of them, let alone Aveline, and this was a tender, affectionate caress, one none of them would have thought him capable of.

“Thank you, Aveline,” the elf said, his gravelly voice filled with emotion. “You have my eternal gratitude.”

“I failed,” she closed her eyes on a wave of shame.

“You tried.”

 Varric spoke up, perfectly summing up the way everyone felt. “Guard Captain, you still scare me shitless. But there’s no one I’d rather have at my back than you. You did really good, Red. That is one lucky baby you are going to have; his mama is a she-wolf.”

Anders smiled. “Maker, I’m going to be busy. I should change my profession to midwife.”

“All we need is Isabela spawning as well, and my life will be complete,” Varric rolled his eyes. “Now let’s go. Are you coming, Blondie?”

Anders bit his lip, looked from Fenris, who had walked to the door and had stopped to look at him, back to Aveline.

In the end it was she that made up his mind for him. “Go,” she just told him and he laid a few health potions near her and a blanket over her to keep her comfortable.

Then he turned to the door, a hard glint in his eyes.

“We finish this tonight.”

Fenris just nodded.

* * *

_We reached the part of the road where I had left Merrill, and...nothing. I was getting a bit frantic (where had she frolicked to?) when Anders noticed the arrow painted in blood. We climbed up on the rocky ledge, wondering what might have possessed the silly little elf, Fenris muttering that we didn't have time for her games, when suddenly he went very still and bent down to examine something._

_He came back up holding one of Hawke’s rings._

_Merrill was leading us towards Hawke._

_Fenris actually said “When this is over, I’m going to kiss that girl.”_

_And Anders remarked that he was going to, as well._

_Little did we know, Isabela deserved a kiss as well. She found Cullen, and the Knight Captain, Maker bless his soul, did some quick snooping (in the form of dragging the templar outside the barracks into a private room and beating him silly) and found out that Meredith had secretly ordered the templars she had assigned to Hawke to wait, and at the right time...help Sebastian._

_I would call her a bitch, but it would be an affront to bitches everywhere._

_Cullen and Isabela, along with Donnic, rounded up some templars that Cullen thought were trustworthy, pressed some guards into helping them, and headed to Hawke’s summer lodge. They found Aveline there, (poor Donnic; what a sight, to find your pregnant woman half dead on the floor) and then rushed back to the city._

_Isabela had thought of what we hadn't. Hawke’s mabari._

_So you see, my dear readers, it was the women of the group that saved the day; Aveline had fought for Hawke like a dragon protecting her young, Isabela had used her brain (larger than her tits, not that anyone ever noticed) and Merrill...when we found her, slumped to the ground outside a cave on the Wounded Coast, that girl had nearly bled herself dry._

_Anders healed her as best as he could and Fenris kissed her hand._

_I swear it to every Paragon that ever lived._

_Ha. We were all changing. The change was like a birth, uncomfortable and painful, but it brought forth wonderful fruit. I had learned not to be so selfish. Anders had learned that some things were worth more than justice. And Fenris...had learned to trust._

_We walked into that cave, thinking we would have no more surprises for the night._

_Shit...we were sooo wrong._


	42. Chapter 42

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story has picked up a steady and devoted audience these past few weeks, which is a continuous source of joy and pleased smiles for me.  
> Thank you all so much for the lovely comments and the love!  
> A big surprise here in this chapter for all of you that are reading this story for the first time...hehehe...I can't wait to hear your reactions!

Hawke had known anger in her life. In fact, most of her life had been a series of angry, furious moments, moments where she’d had to clench her fists and grit her teeth not to succumb to the blind rage that was threatening to take her over.

She could still remember the moment when she had awaken after those men had used her and discarded her, lying on her childhood bed. She could remember pain, shame, sadness; but most of all, she could remember anger- blind and powerless rage. Why had that had to happen to her? Why her? What had she done to ever deserve that? How could the Maker have allowed her –anyone- to suffer like that?

She could still remember nights where sleep eluded her, and she would go out on the yard and practise with the rusty old greatsword she’d bought from Old Barlin. She could remember how the sword sang in her hands, while she hacked away at invisible enemies, seeing the hated faces of the men that had raped her, and imagining how she would gut them all like the pigs they were.

Rage was all she’d felt when she ran away from home, less than two years later, and tracked down these men in the same forest where she had been tormented, following their usual routes – nothing but anger as she fell into their camp in the middle of the night. It had scared her, how blind, how utterly feral she had become in her fury, how she had hacked at the bodies of the slavers until she’d left unrecognisable piles of flesh and bones behind.

The anger at losing her father was even worse. It was such a senseless, absurd way to die. Their old horse had spooked, and reared up. When her father had tried to calm her, a hoof caught him in the head and Malcolm Hawke was dead in less than seconds. She remembered seeing the mangled corpse of their horse lying in the street when the fog of rage cleared. And her mother’s eyes, looking at her like she was a monster and a saviour both.

The battle at Ostagar, betrayal, running for their lives, seeing the darkspawn horde devour her former home, seeing her brother crushed like a bug in the grip of that ogre. Rage, rage, rage. For the longest time it was all she had felt. Rage at her uncle, at having to scrape to feed her family. Rage at Bartrand’s betrayal in the Deep Roads. Rage when her sister had died, the taint darkening her skin.

She could remember, with perfect clarity, every single battle and scrape she had been in. Not because she had been in danger, or that the faces of the opponents mattered. It was because every time she unsheathed her weapon, the anger had been there, lurking in her core like an angry beast, threatening to take over her soul. 

That was the greatest fear of all, that she would one day succumb to it, and become a mindless killer, a beast that killed for the fun of it.

Oh, no, Hawke had not been a stranger to anger. Losing her mother to a deranged blood mage, the grotesque thing he’d made her into, stumbling and shuffling like a zombie. The men in her group and that stupid, heartless bet, the anger at herself for falling for their faked interest. The anger at Sebastian when he had won; then at everybody else for bringing the memory of her rape up from the dark corner in her mind where she tried-daily-to keep it hidden. Pain and anger and shame all over again-now they all knew. Anger when Fenris gave her hope just to crush it. Anger and pain, so much pain, when he broke her heart. Anger when she found out about Isabela’s betrayal and had to fight that behemoth of a rabid Qunari. Anger to find Fenris snatched away.

Oh, no, Hawke knew anger. She knew it intimately, like an old friend; she knew how to use it to strengthen her resolve, how not to let it control her, how to use it to fuel herself to fight calmly, collectedly, almost uncaringly for the outcome. Anger smouldered in the inside; she never allowed it out.

But this...this was not anger. This was not just fury. This was so above it all, so much worse than anything she’d ever labelled as ‘anger’ that she started wondering if she’d really ever known the true meaning of the word. She could feel her blood run hot and furious in her veins, her whole body shaking with the effort of holding it in. She knew it was in her best interest not to fight, but damn it, she wanted to kill them all, she wanted to hack and slash until she bathed in their blood. A red mist was swimming in front of her eyes; she blinked to clear it. Her ears were ringing, her heartbeat thumping in her head.

And one sentence in her head, repeating itself again and again and again.

_Fenris. Stay away. Don’t be a fool. Stay away, stay away, stay away._

 Because if anyone dared take someone of hers away again, she would bring it all out, let it loose, let it rain pain and destruction on them all. She would –even pregnant and waddling like a duck- wreck holy vengeance on them. She’d rip their throats open with her bare teeth and wallow in the coppery taste of their blood. A quick death; more mercy than they had shown and much more than they deserved. A slash across the abdomen, their guts rolling on the floor. She’d be quick and brutal and for the first time rejoice in her own bloodthirstiness. No one was touching her people again, the people she loved.

She’d already lost Aveline tonight, and at that thought she nearly crumpled. Aveline. Oh, sweet mother of Andraste. Aveline had gone down protecting her, not even hesitating to sacrifice her own life and that of her unborn child, not even when she saw she was fighting impossible odds. She had calmly said to a frantic Hawke that she had promised Fenris they would have to step over her dead body to get to her. And Aveline always kept her promises.

She fought the tears. Aveline... Donnic. Oh, Maker, Donnic. Poor Donnic.

Her eyes glinted over the cloth that was bound around her mouth; they sparkled like yellow diamonds. Grief and anger- the most potent combination, one chilling, the other incendiary, battling inside her. Anger, as usual, won and pushed the grief away. She would grieve for her friend later, she would cry and rage over her loss, but right now she needed to find a way to escape, before these two monsters found a way to use her against the man she loved, before her babies were harmed.

A strong kick told her that her daughters agreed.

She pushed the thought that sprang into her mind away; if Danarius was here, then maybe they had already killed Fenris. No, no she refused to think about that. When she had first seen the magister, back at the lodge, and realised who he was, she had nearly fainted. If Danarius was there, alive, that could only mean that Fenris and her friends...but then that monster had started speaking to Sebastian in a low voice, and she’d managed to catch the words ‘fight’, ‘flee”, and ‘damned elf’.  She’d also noticed that he magister’s clothes were bloodied and torn and deduced that he had turned tail and run like the cowardly dog he was.

She pushed away the sharp pain as that little voice  started whispering in a malicious tone that that didn't mean anything; the magister could have killed Fenris and then made his escape. And she might also have already lost Merrill, her lovely, sweet-as-caramel Merrill, Anders – _Maker, not my Anders_ \- and Varric. Isabela. They might have killed Isabela. She would drown them all in the sea the pirate loved so much if they’d hurt her Isabela.

If they had touched a single hair on her Varric’s chest, she would shove Bianca so far up Sebastian’s ass, he would be shooting bolts out of his mouth.

As if on cue, Sebastian walked to her side, and looked down on her, a smug, cruel little smile on his face as she regarded him with insanely furious eyes.

“Will you behave if I take the gag off?” he asked, and she nodded.

He removed the rag, and the first thing she did was describe in minute detail what diseased-ridden pond scum his ass-fucked bitch of a mother had humped to produce him.

Sebastian sighed, like a patient, loving father being faced with a petulant child and tried to put the gag back on, telling her in a condescending voice that little girls that didn't behave got muffled like bitches that bite their masters.

And Hawke did turn around and bite him, putting all her strength in her jaws, until the taste of his blood flooded her mouth. He pulled his hand back and clutched it in his armpit, yelping in pain.

“What?” Danarius spat, annoyed to be disturbed again.

“The bitch bit me,” Sebastian hissed and at the magister’s laughter, his blue eyes flashed with anger and he backhanded Hawke across the face.

She turned her face to him calmly, without flinching.

“I swear, getting bitten is the least of your troubles, Sebastian,” she promised in a silky, threatening voice. “I won’t dip your hands in hot oil like you did Fenris’- I’ll dip your balls in it.”

The gag went back on, while Danarius snickered. “She has quite the mouth on her, Prince Vael. Do not worry, by the time I’m finished with my ritual, all you’ll hear from her impertinent little mouth is love words.”

If looks could kill, they’d be so dead, both of them.

* * *

Fenris took a deep breath, then unsheathed his sword and motioned for the others to follow him. He grasped Anders by his robes as he was going by, and locked eyes with the suddenly alarmed mage.

“We are most certainly outnumbered, so I need you to be quiet. I will have no “You shall never taunt another mage!” and such nonsense. Understood?”

Anders pretended to lock his lips and throw away the key.

Fenris rolled his eyes and the turned to Varric, who shrugged. “I _am_ a rogue,”” the dwarf just pointed out. “Keep behind me, boys. There might be booby traps in there.”

Varric had been right to worry; the first trap was just inside of the entrance. Fenris nearly fidgeted in place while the dwarf examined the mechanism, muttering under his breath. He thought he heard the dwarf mumble something in the lines of “slick, Choir Boy, but not as slick as I am,” before the mechanism released with a small click.

Varric took a theatrical bow and motioned ahead. “After you,” he said, and Fenris hastened to go past him, carefully examining the road ahead for any enemies.

The first of Sebastian’s guards that they came across fell effortlessly, with one of Anders’ spells, and Fenris finishing them off by ripping out their hearts. Varric took out one sentry with a well-placed bolt to the forehead, and Fenris snuck behind a fourth one, lighting his markings at the last moment and breaking his neck.

But many more were still ahead.

Anders cast a rejuvenation spell on his two companions after clearing a whole cluster of guards that were sitting around a small fire in one of the biggest ‘rooms’ of the cavern system. The amount of armed men they came across increased the further in they travelled. Sebastian had to have brought a small army with him. Fenris was getting frustrated by the slow rate in which they were progressing through the caves, worried out of his mind of what might be happening to Hawke while they tried to cut their way through the enemy’s ranks as silently and as unobserved as possible. Varric tried to ease his apparent anxiety, and even Anders tried to lure him into a debate about mages, both of them exchanging worried looks at the elf’s unusual tension. They had been accustomed to a Fenris that was cool and controlled, stoic in the face of the gravest danger, and this frantic, shaky elf, that was biting his lip and racking trembling hands through his hair unnerved them.

They feared he was nearing his breaking point, and they needed him composed; Hawke needed him composed. Hawke needed him not to do anything stupid, because she would never forgive herself if something happened to him, if anything happened to them all. It wasn’t just a matter of saving Hawke and her unborn babies. Hawke had experienced too much loss, too much death-she protected the lives of the people she cared about with fierce passion; losing any of them would break her. They had no idea if Aveline and Merrill would manage to overcome their injuries and they both knew Hawke would never stop blaming herself if they succumbed to them.

Hawke had declared them all her family- and she had already lost one. If she lost another one, she might never recover.

But it was a moot point; they had to save her first.

* * *

Sebastian eyed Hawke and her bulging belly were his babies were growing with an almost predatory look as the magister downed another lyrium potion and mumbled under his breath, preparing the chants and spells he would need for the ritual. A group of five of Sebastian’s men was standing nearby after his order; he had just told them he had need of them. He could see them talking to each other in hushed whispers, looking at the magister with distrust, no doubt wondering what this very important task was that was required of them.

Poor sheep, they had no idea they were about to be slaughtered.

Sebastian had no qualms about it; the magister had initially requested only three ‘volunteers’ but the Prince had offered five, “to get the job done correctly,” as he’d told the magister. He’d been promised a docile, submissive Hawke, one that would have no option but to obey his every whim. Her memory would be wiped clean, the Tevinter mage had promised, and new memories would be planted in their stead. She would be told she was Sebastian’s fiancée and that her very sun revolved around him. The mage had told him there was no spell that could make her love Sebastian, but there were quite a few that could take her free will from her.

Sebastian didn’t mind; love was fickle. Obedience was much more preferable.

“It is a shame you didn’t capture the elf, Serah,” he told Danarius, and received a cold look in reply. “There’d be no need for so much lyrium, then.”

“Fenris might have escaped me this time, Sebastian,” the magister intentionally left out any honorifics just to spite the Prince, “but make no mistake, he will fall into my hands, sooner or later. It is a matter of time.”

“Guess again,” a cold voice answered, seething with disgust, while bolts flew into the chamber, raining death down upon the guards.

Sebastian whirled around, his bow already at hand, and shot a few arrows in the general direction of their attackers, before motioning this guards to pick Hawke up and move to the next chamber, whose narrow entrance made it a perfect chokepoint to hold back the assault.

Danarius was left to fend for himself and the magister, furious at his ally’s desertion, used the spilled blood of the dying guards to call up demons and abominations to slow down Fenris, then attacked Sebastian. “Insolent whelp!” he shouted. “You will pay for this!”

Sebastian cocked an arrow; it looked as if the two former allies would take each other out. Fenris saw the guard that was holding Hawke fall to one of Varric’s shots, and frantically tried to slash through the demons surrounding him, using his whirlwind attack, to get to her side as soon as possible. Anders unleashed a series of frantic attacks, ice and fire and lightning reducing the demons to ichor, and shouted at the elf to go to Hawke.

But it was too late.

Time seemed to slow as Fenris watched Danarius move towards her, grasp onto her from behind and bring a knife to her throat. Sebastian lowered his bow, Varric lowered Bianca. Anders’ fireball fizzled and died. Fenris refused to lower his sword, but his eyes spoke volumes, and so did the malicious, triumphant smile on the magister’s face.

“Now, my pet,” he pulled on Hawke’s hair to make her creamy throat stretch even tighter under the knife, “let us... ‘negotiate’.”

A chill went down Fenris spine. “Let her go, Danarius, and I’ll follow you willingly.”

“ _Master_ ,” the mage corrected him in saccharine voice, the same one he used when he was about to punish some poor slave, nauseating in its fake sweetness. “The word is _master_ , little wolf. It’ll serve you well to remember it.”

 Fenris only hesitated for one fragment of a second, as his eyes searching into Hawke’s. She tightened her lips and tried to nod ‘no’, bloodying her neck on the knife. At the sight of her blood, Fenris’ mind was made up. He bowed his head and his shoulders hunched into the submissive posture of a slave. There was nothing in the world he despised more than the man who would once again become his master; there was nothing in the world he would want less.

Except to see her come to harm.

“Yes, Master,” he muttered. “Please release her, master, and I shall be glad to follow you.”

“Fenris!” she cried out. “Don’t do this! Get out! Anders! Make him go! Varric! Do something!”

Varric just shook his head. It was too risky; the knife was almost embedded in her throat, and one wrong move could make the magister cut her even worse. Anders looked at her with despair written in his amber eyes. There was nothing they could do, not while that fiend had his hands on her.

 “That was not the agreement we had,” Sebastian raised his bow again, this time his mark on the magister. Danarius cast him a condescending look, then purposefully dragged the knife a little on Hawke’s neck, making both Anders and Fenris gasp at the sight of the angry red slash and the blood that started running down her neck.

“Do you think I care if you kill her?” Sebastian sneered. “I just want the bairns. She looks far along...I could rip them out of her after she’s dead.”

Even Danarius looked a little sick at that thought. He gave the Prince a long look, revulsion on his face, and then he shook his head.  “My pet,” he crooned to Fenris, while at the same time yanking hard on Hawke’s hair to shut her up. “Kill the Prince.”

“My pleasure, Master,” Fenris replied, and it was perhaps the first time that an order to kill from his master didn’t bother him, the first time that following Danarius’ order was a joy and not a hated duty.

Sebastian turned to Fenris as the elf approached him, drawing his sword. He let loose three arrows in close succession, but the elf just ducked out of their way. Sebastian glanced behind him to the cave that his men had fortified themselves in, and holding Fenris in his sight, his bow cocked with a red tipped explosive arrow, he slowly started backing away towards it.

Fenris prowled towards him like a tiger. “You were a good man, once, Sebastian,” he rasped in his silky baritone as he continued approaching the Prince. “You were once a man I would have called a friend. What happened to you?”

Sebastian step faltered for just one second, his eyes going wide before they narrowed with hate. At the same time, a sharp pain throbbed in his skull, making his vision blur for just a second. He shook his head to clear it, then motioned to the men in the cave behind him to attack.

They rushed out of the cave, a mass of roaring and yelling men, waving their weapons around in a useless show of intimidation, and Fenris just smiled wolfishly, before he dropped into a battle stance.

“Kill them!” Sebastian roared. “Kill the magister, too, but make sure the woman stays alive.”

Four things happened at the same time:

Sebastian was hit by one of Anders’ spells, just as he was rushing to retreat to the other cavern; Danarius, seeing that his life was in danger, pushed Hawke into the path of the charging men and retreated against a wall; and Fenris roared, realizing he wouldn’t be able to get to her in time.

Isabela and her templar and city guards reinforcements rushed into the cave, Hawke’s mabari flying towards the men attacking his mistress in one huge, bounding leap.

Hawke turned to look at the men charging towards her, knowing that their momentum would get her trampled underneath them at best; at worst, one of the weapons that were flailing around precariously would land on her. She fell to her knees, trying to protect her belly by curling up around herself, closed her eyes, prayed, and waited.

* * *

_I will try my best to explain what happened, although, I must warn you, some of the last minute events that took place were a blur after the battle. I can't even try to give you a true account; every person I spoke to afterwards had a slightly different version of what had happened._

_One thing was certain, though. Brace yourselves, my faithful readers, because you probably won’t believe what I’m about to tell you._

_Sebastian saved Hawke, throwing himself in front of her, covering her body with his, and received a sword in the back, a sword that would have pierced through her chest and ended her life –and that of the babies- on the spot._

_Anders, to his dying day, swore it was a mistake; he had wanted to throw a lighting spell at him, but he had been thinking of the healing spells that he would have to have ready for Hawke. I guess he got confused. Instead of the lightning spell, he hit Sebastian with one of the most powerful restorative spells in his arsenal, not dissimilar to the one he had used on my brother Bartrand, the one that had briefly brought that raving lunatic of a dwarf back to himself._

_I guess it did the same for Sebastian. His eyes cleared, a bewildered look came over his face. He looked around frantically, as if not realizing what he was doing there, who he was and then he saw that man rushing towards Fenris, his sword flailing around. Hawke was in the way, and he reacted on instinct. He put himself in harm’s way, and saved her life, giving his at the same time._

_I guess that really did prove it. Sebastian had been sick. Something had gone terribly wrong in his brain, something that had started a long time ago, and had only been kept at check through the influence that drug the Chantry had been supplying him. Once he’d stopped taking it, he had escalated quickly, losing himself more and more every day; but Sebastian, the Sebastian we had known, the one that wasn’t driven insane by the voices in his head, had still been in there._

_Choir Boy had still been in there._

_And he had saved the day._

_Isabela, Fenris, Anders and I made quick work of the hired thugs Sebastian had brought along, and this time, we’d had templars on our back. Danarius hadn’t stood a chance. I admit I felt an acute sense of  vindication on behalf of Fenris when that fiend begged his former slave for his life. I bet Fenris felt it even more. He roared “You are no longer my master!” and snapped that sick, perverted man’s neck like a child snaps a twig across his knee._

_And then he rushed towards Hawke, picked her up and held her on his lap, clutching at her with a sigh of relief, his head buried in her hair. She clutched at him desperately, ran her hands over him, tears running down her face._

_“You fool,” she said. “You’d have gone with him? Are you mad?”_

_“I would willingly have gone to a worse hell than that for you, Hawke,” he mumbled against her hair._

_Sebastian was drawing what appeared to be his last breath and we all gathered around him; he only had eyes for the couple embracing on the floor in front of him._

_“Forgive me,” he rasped, and Fenris raised his head to look at him. He exchanged a look with Anders as the Prince coughed and blood bubbled from his mouth._

_If there was any question in Anders’ mind of whether he should heal Sebastian, it was soon answered, and by none other than the Prince himself. He begged us to let him find peace, now that his mind was his own again, and then asked for forgiveness again. Fenris nodded, his face solemn, and Hawke swallowed hard, then nodded herself._

_Then the Prince drew one long, shuddering breath- he never got the chance to exhale it. His heart stopped, his eyes closed._

_Sebastian Vael, Prince of Starkhaven, was dead._

_And then...Hawke raised her head, her eyes wide, and gasped. Fenris also did, just a second later, and they both paled. Hawke looked down, paled even more, and then started shaking._

_“I think...I think my water just broke.”_


	43. Chapter 43

 

Varric looked from one face to another, then at the cave around him, with all the dead bodies and remains of demons and abominations littering the ground. “Correct me if I’m wrong,” his voice broke the stunned silence, “but this place doesn’t seem like the most sanitary location for a birth. Those babies are going to try and crawl right back in the moment they see this mess.”

That woke everyone abruptly up, and everybody started talking together, trying to decide if they had to move Hawke or leave her right where she was, whether they should try to head back to town or back to the lodge. Someone said they should get a fire going to boil water. Someone else said that they needed rags.  One of the templars clutched his skirt tightly at the look some of them gave him at those words. Varric nearly started laughing at the shocked, wide-eyed look on the face of all the males in the room; they hadn’t been afraid to rush in to battle a magister and a deranged Prince’s minions, but the sight of a woman in labour had them all nearly peeing their britches.

And amid all this chaos, Hawke and Fenris were still looking at each other, astonishment on both their faces, holding their breaths as they gazed in each other’s eyes. But then Hawke winced, and some of Fenris’ composure fell into place with an almost audible click. He put one hand out blindly and grabbed Anders –who was just sitting there, looking at Hawke with a dumbfounded look on his face- by the robes.

“Mage,” Fenris growled. “She’s in pain. Do something.”

Anders sighed and then disentangled himself from Fenris’ grasp. “Everybody out. I need to examine her,” he said in a stern voice, kneeling at her side, but the men in the cavern just stood there, all of them reluctant to leave her. Isabela started pulling and pushing people and when the cave was completely empty, Anders helped Fenris lay a trembling Hawke back.

The healer ignored Fenris’ menacing growl as he put his hands between Hawke’s legs and examined her, making her wince and hiss in pain. He then shot the elf an alarmed, troubled little look that made Fenris blood chill in his veins.

“The babies have not turned,” he announced, and his brow creased in worry. “Sweet Andraste... They are not even in breach position anymore. They are on their side. If they do not turn until she is fully dilated...”

Fenris lost his breath, his voice, a good ten years of his life. He grasped onto Anders forearm again, going so tense his body started vibrating. “What then?” he finally managed to ask, after three failed attempts to get his throat to work.

Anders ran a tender hand down Hawke’s face, casting a sleeping spell at the same time. As soon as her eyes had drifted shut and a small sigh escaped her, he turned to the elf, not even noticing the way the sharp talons of his gauntlets were bloodying his arm.

“Then I might have to cut her open.”

* * *

It had been decided that they would return to the city, and against Fenris protests, who sputtered and yelled at the idea, Hawke was made to walk some of the distance back, as soon as Anders’ spell wore off. Anders had stood with his arms crossed against his chest, calmly listening to Fenris’ rant, who wanted to make a makeshift stretcher to carry her on.

“Listen to me, you snarling dog,” he then spat through clenched teeth to an irate Fenris as soon as he had stopped his tirade to draw breath. “I am her healer. I know what is best for her. The walk will do her good, it might make the babies turn. Even if it doesn’t, it will help her control the contractions better, and prepare her body for the birth. It usually takes hours for a first time mother to give birth. Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

Fenris paled again and drew in a deep breath, trying to control his fraying nerves. “Hours?” he just stuttered, his hand going to his chest as if he wanted to make his heart start working again. “What do you mean hours? She’s in pain!”

Anders’ eyes softened a little at the look of distress and worry on his face. “There is nothing I can do. It takes however long it takes. Hours. Sometimes even days. You can help me instead of hindering me, Fenris. It will make you feel less helpless.”

The elf opened his eyes and a strange calm seemed to relax his tense shoulders. A task. That was what he needed to take his mind off the anxiety. “What can I do?”

“Support her while she walks,” Anders motioned for the rest of the group to get started. “Tell us when she needs a small break; rub her back- it must be killing her. Talk to her. Keep her calm, centred. Don’t let her panic or think dark thoughts.”

Fenris took one deep breath, trying to push back his panic, to slow the frantic beat of his heart. “Yes. Right. Talk, rub, support. Understood.”

Anders turned back and threw him a teasing smile. “And prepare to hear a lot of swear words. You might not be the one that got her in this condition, but you are male, and right now all of us are the dregs of creation.”

Fenris swallowed hard, but comforted himself with the thought that above all, Hawke was a lady and wouldn’t stoop so low.

Apparently, though, he was wrong.

A couple of hours later, his ears were so red he thought the colour would be permanent, and he had discovered that there was a very wide, very colourful array of curse words he had never heard before. He had also counted at least twelve ways a woman could make a man incapable of fathering children, and some very imaginative uses for a man’s testicles, ranging from being chopped and fried and put in a salad, to fashioning earrings from them.

In between the swearing, Hawke held on to his hand and purred under his steady back rubbing.

As per Anders’ instructions they didn't talk about the battle that had just ended, or the way the father of the babies she was in the process of birthing had died. All she said was that it was a shame that Sebastian had never mentioned his illness to them, because then they would have found a way to help him, and none of this mess would have happened. Fenris didn't comment. He only thought that maybe Sebastian himself hadn't realised, and that meant the Grand Clerics of both Starkhaven and Kirkwall had a lot to answer for.

Merrill had already been carried back to town on one of the horses they had with them. Anders had given the man that was holding her in his arms instructions for the hidden location of another mage, a healer in Lowtown, while Cullen and his templars pretended not to listen. The rest of them were content to travel to Kirkwall at a snail’s pace, keeping up with Hawke, resting often to let her catch her breath, and regaling each other with accounts of their participation in the battle. Varric’s roll of parchment was nearly full, and he was writing in the margins now.

They took a break for Hawke to rest just before reaching the city gates, and Fenris wondered off for a bit, still keeping her in sight, as Anders once again examined her to see how far along she was.

Cullen approached him, his lips set tight in a grim line.

“I realise the time is hardly appropriate, but what are we going to do with Meredith?” he blandly asked, then exchanged a look with his men. “What are we to tell her?”

Fenris paused with Varric’s waterskin halfway up to his mouth. He exchanged a look with the dwarf, then with Hawke, who seemed to be in the grip of another contraction. He sighed, then realised that everybody was looking to him for a decision. That alone was a staggering thought, because it made it apparent that all these people considered him Hawke’s partner, and responsible to make decisions for her when she couldn’t. For the lowly ex-slave, who had only himself to make provisions for up until now, it was a sobering moment; it drove home even more completely how much his life had changed.

He now had a woman who, for all intents and purposes, was as good as being his wife, and children on the way.  It was an almost overbearing weight of responsibility, or it should seem that way. But he found himself being thankful for it, grateful; a slave would never even dream of having a family, or being in charge of decisions that important.

A small fear that he might not make it, that he might not be good enough for the job chilled him for just a second; the old Fenris might have bolted, might have been tempted to shake off all this weight. But this Fenris, the one that had gone through fire and pain, the one who had made horrid mistakes and had found forgiveness by one amazing woman, didn't even hesitate. He shouldered the responsibility with an eager heart and with a fierce, primal sense of finally belonging, of finally being right where he was created to be.

Fenris had found his family, his niche in the world, and the Gods themselves wouldn’t be able to make him let go.

“You had no way of knowing that Meredith had given contradictory orders to some of her men, Cullen,” he logically offered. “Just give her an account of what happened, without exposing her treachery. She will not be able to touch any of you without exposing her duplicity.” He took a long swallow of water. “I dare say she might have to commend you on your actions.”

Cullen considered his words for a moment, then smiled and nodded. “True. She cannot accuse us of going against her orders, because she never ordered me _personally_ to betray Hawke. And if she dares punish any of us for assisting, she will be admitting her guilt. But...does she go unpunished? It was a grave crime she committed, conspiring with an enemy of Kirkwall, not to mention a blood mage.”

The blond Knight Captain rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, then sighed. “Maker’s breath. I had heard stories...whispers. People kept insisting she’s not in her right mind. But I had faith in my Commander, I didn’t want to see. Now my eyes have been opened, and...I cannot do anything _but_ see.”

He closed his eyes with a another long-suffering sigh. “I should...do something. Report to our superiors, confront her myself. I should not- _cannot_ \- sit idly by.”

A hard gleam lit Fenris’ green eyes, and his face tightened into a menacing scowl. “She will be dealt with,” he spat, his voice a hoarse, gravelly growl, and Cullen felt a chill of fear run down his spine. “Don’t do anything yet, Knight Captain. The time- her time- will come. Soon.”

The elven warrior was no one to trifle with, Cullen realised at that moment. Maker help Meredith, she had finally crossed the wrong man. Fenris would not forget her role in this little drama, and neither would the Champion. In her quest for power, the Knight Commander had bitten off a piece much bigger than she could chew.

 _And may she choke on it_.

* * *

By the time they arrived back at the Hawke mansion, she couldn’t walk anymore, as her contractions were coming more and more often. Fenris was carrying her, and she was crying out and writhing in pain in his arms, blistering his ears with the curses that answered his tender, soothing words.

Orana frantically prepared her bedroom, changing the linens and carrying bucketfuls of water to heat over the fireplace, then clean sheets and towels. Her hands were shaking as she helped her mistress change out of her bloodied, soiled clothes and into a clean, fresh smelling robe. Fenris was in the room, and he was shocked at the way the muscles on her belly clenched and shook with the force of her contractions, the way feet and hands seemed to be changing the shape of her belly from the inside out.

Those babies wanted out.

But Anders paled and shook his head when he examined her, and after one tense, fearful moment, after a deep, shuddering breath, he ordered only Orana to remain in the room. Fenris’ breath caught; the mage instructed the woman to wash especially well, and to wear clean clothes.

When he asked for thread and a needle, and his surgical tools to be fetched from Darktown and boiled thoroughly, the usually unmovable warrior felt a wave of dizziness that nearly brought him to his knees.

One grim, tight-lipped look from the mage confirmed his fears; Anders would have to cut the babies out of Hawke. She would die. No woman ever survived that. It was something that was done on women that were dead or dying, to at least try and save the child.

“Anders,” he choked. “Can it not be avoided?”

The mage grabbed him by the bicep and dragged him to a corner urgently whispering in his ear. “The babies are in distress. She’s bleeding. It must be done, before the placenta completely detaches and we lose both babies- and maybe even her.”

Fenris’ eyes fixed on Hawke, who looked so small and scared on the huge bed. She looked right back at him, her eyes huge with fear. There were so many things he wanted to tell her. So many things he wanted to share with her. So many dreams. Was this how it was all going to end after all this pain, after everything they had gone through?

A hand latched on to his shoulder, as Anders gently asked him to leave the room. He shrugged it off, his eyes still on Hawke, desperately memorising her face, her expression, the colour of her eyes. He was certain he was not going to see them again. Not alive.

“Fenris,” a voice was calling him, and he realised that hands were holding him; he struggled against them, his breath coming in short pants, his markings suddenly coming to life. Suddenly his head jerked to the side and pain exploded in his chin. He blinked, and then his eyes focused on Isabela’s concerned face, as she stood over him, her hand still clenched in the fist she had pummelled him with.

“Hold it together, handsome,” she soothed him in her softest voice. “She’s not going to die. Anders won’t let her. You’re scaring her.”

Fenris focused again, then his eyes were once again drawn to Hawke who seemed to have forgotten her own pain and was struggling against Anders that was trying to keep her in bed. She only had eyes for Fenris, and was frantically trying to roll out of bed, calling his name, her hand outstretched towards him.

He pushed Isabela off and scampered to her side, practically crawling to her on his knees and hands, to grasp that hand that was reaching out to him.

It was like magic, how his anxiety abated the moment he touched her and how her fear disappeared the moment her hand was in his. She breathed his name and before anyone knew it, she was in his lap again, and they were clutching to each other like a lifeline. Despite her pain, and despite his panic, their mouths touched in a kiss that started out as gentle and soothing, but was soon a fire raging out of control, an inferno that threatened to set them both and the room around them on fire.

“Hawke. Marian,” he drew back for just a second to look incredibly deep into her eyes, into her very soul. “If you die, I will be extremely crossed.” She laughed before pulling him back into the kiss, then hissed as another contraction made her moan into his mouth.

“I don’t plan to,” she gritted though the pain, reluctant to let go of the pleasure of his mouth even thought she felt as if her whole body was racked by the tremors of her labour. “But if I do...my babies. Fenris, take care of my babies.”

His hands roamed down her back, to come to rest on her heaving belly. He touched his forehead to hers then nipped another kiss from her mouth, his voice velvety soft. “Our babies, Hawke. Our. Mine and yours. Stay alive, don’t leave us.”

She had no way to ease the fear written on his face but with another sizzling, deep kiss, one that made him moan brokenly.

Isabela ogled them for a while, tutted, then dragged Anders out.

“Give them a moment,” she said and the healer rolled his eyes, but obeyed.

* * *

_Only the Maker knows how we managed to drag Fenris out of that room. I think it took me and Isabela, plus Bodahn and Donnic, who had come to bear news that Aveline was doing better, and was out of danger. He roared for her as we dragged him kicking and screaming out of that room, and howled like a wounded wolf when Anders slammed the door shut. Isabela punched him again, yelling to him that he was upsetting Hawke. I think that was the only thing that finally made him calm down, at least at the surface. Still...only the Maker knows how we kept him from storming back in there when she first screamed. Only the Maker knows how he didn't go ape-shit crazy and start killing people when at some point Orana run out covered in blood from head to toe and asked for more lyrium._

_I won’t even attempt to describe how scared we all were. We all sat there, like frightened children, listening to her scream. When she stopped screaming it was even worse. The silence was oppressive, threatening. It meant Anders had put her under; it meant he was cutting through her abdomen. It meant that Hawke might die._

_Fenris sat with his head down, clenching and unclenching his hands, tapping his foot against the floor. For as long as I live, I will remember that tap, tap, tap of his foot. It echoed in my mind until I wanted to scream._

_And then...a loud, wailing cry. An indignant squall, that signalled one of Hawke’s daughters had been born. It was ridiculously loud, cutting through the fear and the hopelessness like a warm knife through butter._

_I have never heard a more glorious sound in my life, a more potent declaration of ‘hey world, here I am’. A second shout followed, and the first one stopped, as if her sister’s cry had shocked the firstborn into silence. The second one stopped crying too, for just a second, then they both started wailing together. They were absurdly beautiful, those twin wah-wah-wahs of new life._

_Fenris jumped to his feet as soon as they sounded- we all did. We listened on, unbelieving, unable to comprehend that one of us had just made two brand new people._

_Wah. Wah. Wah. Like mewling kittens. So fucking incredibly beautiful._

_I will not lie, my readers, but cynical old me couldn’t resist shedding a tear or two. Even Isabela had tears in her eyes._

_Fenris was just standing there, still as a statue, looking at that door with hope and despair warring in his eyes. When that door opened, and Anders stepped out, bathed in blood but smiling like a lunatic, I swear Fenris nearly collapsed._

_“She’s alive,” Anders said. “She’ll be alright. Orana is cleaning her up. And the little ones are well; small, a little weak, but they are fighters. They will be fine.”_

_He then looked at Fenris, smiled a sad little smile and moved to the side. “Care to see your daughters, Fenris?”_

_A gasp, and he was gone. I sneaked a look through the door a few minutes later, and saw him standing over a basinet, with a look I will never forget on his face. Oh, yes, my friends. Love at first sight does exist. That breathless, awe-stricken expression on his face was proof enough._

_Anders asked him if Hawke had decided on names; he said no. Then he looked up, smiled the most gorgeous smile I have ever seen on his face and reached in the basinet to pick one little bundle up._

_“Rose,” he said. “And Lily.”_

_When Hawke finally opened her eyes, she smiled, and said they were the best names he could have chosen._

_And just like that, Fenris was a papa._

_But...the happy bubble burst just a few days later. I thought I saw some small signs of tension around Hawke’s eyes, but I didn't pay any attention; she was tired, she had just gone through a gruesome ordeal, had watched the man that had fathered her children die and then had to go through a surgery that nearly took her life. It was understandable that she was a bit off centre._

_When she woke the household up crying a few days later and refused to see her children, though, we realised things were a bit more serious that a case of stress, fatigue and baby blues._

_At first we were shocked; Hawke had wanted those babies for so long, and with such intensity. She had gone through the Void itself to have them, to keep them safe. And now she refused to even look at them. But Anders explained that it was common, especially with women that had gone through traumatic births. If you took under consideration exactly what had gone wrong since the moment of the babies’ conception, it was a wonder she hadn't snapped before that._

_Depression, Anders said. Post-natal depression. We had to be extra sure to keep a careful eye on her, and take care of her babies until she recovered._

_Shit. Literally. I had nappy duty for a few hours a day, so that Fenris, who didn’t leave her side unless it was to go use the amenities, could go grab a bite to eat._

_Fenris might not have been those babies’ flesh and blood, but he was their papa, in every sense of the word. The only thing he didn't do was breastfeed them. If there was ever any doubt in anyone’s mind that Fenris was the right man for Hawke, it was dispelled during those long, gruesome months, when Hawke struggled to find herself again._

_And when she did...well. It was time for a happily ever after, wasn’t it?_

_Too bad Justice had other ideas._


	44. Chapter 44

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter deals with the difficult subject of post-partum depression, and attempts to see the world through the eyes of a woman suffering from it. Though I have never gone through it myself, I have nothing but respect for the women that battle PPS and finally overcome it.  
> I hope it shows in this chapter.

 

She realised there was something seriously wrong with her the minute she awoke from the magic-induced spell Anders had put her under. Her belly hurt. No, no it didn’t hurt. She felt as if the Arishok’s blade had cleaved her in half. Again. A huge, breath-stealing ache was spreading from her abdomen, making each breath a torment.

But that wasn’t what she felt, deep in her core, to be wrong. The moment she had regained her consciousness, a radiant Fenris had presented her with two small bundles, wrapped up in fluffy pink blankets. She watched his breathless, beaming expression as he pulled the blankets back to show her two scrounged up little faces, red and swollen, their eyes clenched tightly shut.

She felt nothing.

She thought she would feel this great jolt of joy, this overwhelming rush of happiness to finally be staring at the faces of the babies she had waited for all this time. But she felt nothing. Anders’ soft voice commended on how beautiful her daughters were, and she had to fight not to give him an incredulous look. They looked like half-drowned puppies, pathetic and utterly helpless. She waited, biting the inside of her lip, for that motherly instinct to wake up inside her, for her heart to sing in joy, but nothing came, nothing but the overwhelming weight of new responsibility and a near panicky, fearful realization that she was now a parent, and those two tiny vulnerable babies, that started mewling helplessly, were completely depended on her.

She faked a smile, and asked to hold them, determined to ignore the pain spreading from her belly in the desperate need to chase these thoughts away. Surely, as soon as she held them, she would start loving them. Surely, it was just the shock of new motherhood that was preventing her from cooing over her babies. They were adorable, everyone said so, and she would see it as well the minute she held them. Anders cast a pain numbing spell on her, and Fenris helped her sit up, before one baby was deposited on each arm.

The anxiety –and the guilt - inside her mounted to an impossible height as she held them, their slight weight supported in each arm, and still felt nothing. Nothing warm, no stab of motherly love, no overwhelming need to protect and nurture. Just this anxiety, and the fear she wasn’t cut out to be a mother after all, that her babies were cheated by having her as a mother, her that couldn’t even find them cute, or adorable, or look at them with that soft, awe-filled look that Fenris had on his face. And he wasn’t even their real father, they weren’t his blood and flesh, he hadn’t been carrying them inside him all this time. Yet look at him. He was completely in love with them. And she, their mother...she couldn’t bring herself to love them.

Anders pulled her nightgown aside, and she looked at him with a puzzled, bewildered look, as he led their little faces to a painfully swollen breast each. She felt a sharp twinge of pain as her daughters latched on to their respective nipple, and looked down to see their little mouths avidly suckling. Fenris’ eyes fogged; pride, desire, love. And tenderness, so much of it, as he caressed one bald little head with trembling fingers.

And she felt nothing. Not a single thing, not even now when her daughters were drinking from her. Her body went through the right motions, producing the milk they needed, taking care of them, but her heart...her heart was numb. She felt mortified. No doubt, these men that were here watching her suckle her daughters with soft, adoring eyes would be disgusted at her if she told them she wasn’t feeling a single inkling of motherly instinct. No doubt, they would shake their head at her and tell her that she was useless, that every mother loved her babies, that only she was that unnatural.

They would take her babies away if she told them. She examined the thought, waited for the pang of pain and worry that had filled her nights with nightmares at that same thought for months, but what she felt instead was....relief.

Guilt and anxiety rose like a black wave set to crash and bring her under. She bit the inside of her cheek to hide it, clenched her arms around the little bodies in what the men saw as a motion of protectiveness and love; it wasn’t. She was just trying not to cry. Not to push them away and start whimpering.

She managed to hide her distress for three whole days; Varric gave her a long appraising look one day, noting with a curious look that there was a strange tension around her, but she managed to smile and hide it all deep inside her. The dwarf had shaken his head, obviously dismissing his little nagging feeling of worry, and had left, leaving her alone with her babies. Rose and Lilly. Fenris had named them, and she hadn't managed to even care. She was grateful he had, because she would just start bawling if someone asked her what she wanted to name them. She had laughed a little, thinking back at their shared history and decided that the names were appropriate, but that was as far as her reaction went.

Rose and Lilly were strangers. They were two people that had suddenly appeared in her life, and demanded all her time, all her affection, all her love. She looked deep inside her heart and dread spread inside her when she didn't find any, not for them, not for her own children. The scariest truth was that she didn't feel as they were hers, as if she was their mother. She felt disconnected, watching them with a cool, detached expression, straining to smile whenever people fawned over them.

The third night after the birth, her body still aching, she was awoken in the middle of the night by their hungry cry. The first thought that crossed her sleep fogged mind was that she just wanted them to shut up, that someone should just make them stop someone should just hold a pillow on their faces till they... The terror that went through her heart as soon as she realised that she was contemplating hurting her children was what made her suddenly unable to pretend anymore.

With a keening cry she broke down, muttering incoherently, ashamed at herself and her inability to be strong. She was mortified at her failure to be a proper mother. Even a stranger would have been moved by those mewling, pathetic cries, even a stranger would rush to soothe two crying babies- and she, their own mother, couldn’t bring herself to care. Not only that- for a brief moment, she had felt that if they were gone everything would be better.

She had never felt such agony before, such shame, such despondent, helpless guilt.

Fenris was frantic, running his hands through her hair, asking her what was wrong. All she could answer was _I think I might hurt them_.

When Fenris gave her a shocked look, his hands stilling and his eyes huge, as if she had suddenly grown a second head, she buried her face in the pillow and sobbed as if her heart was breaking. A broken chant left her mouth amid her sobs, again and again and again.

_I’m a monster._

* * *

Anders sighed as he closed the door behind him, and rubbed a weary hand across his forehead. Worried eyes, still bleary with sleep, followed his every movement.

He slumped in the chair opposite Varric. Fenris was rocking in place, trying to soothe Rose, or maybe it was Lilly, while Varric winced and tried to pry one little fist away from his chest hair. Anders could see the tension coming off the elf in waves, and the baby in his arms could probably feel it too, young as she was, because she refused to settle down, fretting more and more, until Isabela, in a totally uncharacteristic movement for her, pried the fussing baby from the elf’s arms and cuddled her close.

Anders shook his head to clear away his shock and then focused on the elf.

“I should have expected it,” he said. “I’ve failed her once more.”

Merrill piped in, her voice lost and small. “I’ve seen it before. I should have known too. You didn't fail her, lethallan. We all missed the signs.”

Fenris kept himself perfectly still, preparing to hear what was wrong with Hawke with his stoic, patient mask in place. Inside he was a quivering mass of fear and anxiety; he had never seen Hawke like this, he had never felt this level of distress from her, not even that day that he had broken her heart, using cruel and hurtful words against her. She had been sad, pained, hurt back then, but she had been angry too; she had broken down but she had picked herself up again. This time- this time there was no fight, no spark inside her.

Anders kept his eyes on his face as he explained. “All women go through a period of moodiness and sometimes sadness after they give birth. It’s only natural. The change in the life is momentous, and some do no deal with it that well. They call it ‘baby blues’. But...”

“But?” Fenris urged. “Carry on. Maker, did you hear her cry? That’s not just sadness, nor moodiness. What is wrong with her?”

“Some women have it worse,” Anders rubbed a hand across his forehead again. “Some go as far as taking their own lives, or hurting their children. We don’t know what causes it, but I were to hazard a guess...she hasn’t exactly had an easy ride here, has she? The stress, the worry, the heartache...” He noticed how Fenris’ fists clenched and softened his tone. “She keeps everything bottled up inside, until she no longer can, and then she breaks apart.”

Varric hissed and pulled a tiny fist away from his chest hair once more. “She always pulls herself together, though, and becomes stronger for it.”

Anders looked around the room. “This time...she will need help. She can’t do this alone.”

“She’s not alone,” Merrill said and Isabela and Anders beamed a smile towards her. “She’s never been alone. We are her family. Her clan.”

“Indeed,” Fenris clenched his fists and raised determined, unwavering eyes to Anders. “Tell me what to do.”

* * *

The days blended together for Hawke. She had carefully listened to Anders explaining to her that what she was going through was normal, that she shouldn’t blame herself. She had shaken her head and pretended to agree, while inside her shame and quilt churned in her stomach. She had listened to her friends’ assurances that they wouldn’t leave her alone, that nobody was judging her.

But that image of Fenris’ eyes, looking at her with shock and terror written in their green depths stayed with her, despite his promise that he would be by her side, that they would fight through this together.

She scoffed when he told her that he understood. How could he? How could he know what it felt like to drown under the weight of her failure, under the weight of her anxiety? How could he understand what it felt like to be this...this monster, this woman who couldn’t bring herself to take care of her own babies, who couldn’t even look at them without feeling the world drop from underneath her, without feeling the weight of all this guilt, of all this shame?

She knew she was missing out on moments of her babies’ lives; she wasn’t there to bathe them, or change them, or cuddle them to sleep. She could barely look at them when Fenris brought them to her to nurse them. She knew those were moments she would never get back and it only made her misery and her remorse worse. It only made her feel like more of a monster.

Fenris begged her to talk to him every day, but she couldn’t. It was struggle to drag herself out of bed, to take care of her basic needs, to focus on something –anything- other than her own anxiety. Days blended together; nights with babies crying into the night and Fenris getting up to take care of them became a blur, indistinguishable from one another.

He never left for more than one or two hours every day, never stopped talking to her, his hoarse, gravelly voice the only thing that managed to ease her misery. He never stopped talking to her about her babies, about how Lilly had eyes that were a warm chocolate brown like her sister Bethany’s, while Rose’s eyes were lighter, a deep burnished amber. He never stopped describing how they grew like reeds, how they each had different, distinct personalities, already discernible.

She resented him for it, and was grateful as well.

Fenris, the bitter ex-slave, had taken to parenthood like a duck to water, claiming the offspring of the man that had tortured him under his wind, into his heart, into his hands. He had taken the responsibility for her own wellbeing onto his shoulders, without question, without a doubt, without a second thought.

During those long weeks where she staggered under the oppressive weight of that mountain-sized boulder of misery she was buried under, she forgave him everything, all he had ever done to hurt her. She resented him every time she saw him care for her daughters- why was he capable of it, while she, their own mother could not? It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that he got to be a papa without her. But she also couldn’t help but feel every one or her misgivings about him, every little- or not so little – hurt he had caused her melt away like ice under the bright sun.

She loved him. She forgave him as she watched him take care of Rose and Lilly. But why couldn’t she also love them, why couldn’t she forgive herself? It wasn’t fair, damn it.

He couldn’t understand, but perhaps she could make him.

“It is like being locked in a dark cell,” she turned to him one day, and his eyes had opened incredibly wide. “Like everyone is on the outside and you are locked inside, no sun, no warmth, no hope to escape. It is dark, and cold, and scary.”

He stood incredibly still, his eyes begging her to continue.

“I feel...lost. Like I made a cell for me on my own and locked myself in there. Who will let me out? Who will set me free?” She looked at him, and for the first time sought contact on her own, stretching out a hand to him. “Help me, Fenris. Guide me home.”

“Only you can do that, Hawke,” he murmured, and she jolted at the sight of his green eyes flooding with tears. “I can only be here, waiting. You have to pull yourself out. I know you can do it. For us. For them. For me.”

Her heart clenched. She was making the man she loved suffer. She was depriving her daughters of a mother. She was less than she could be, less than she deserved to be.

Anger suddenly flooded her, chasing the numbness away, and her eyes shone with a fire that had been missing for too long. Her hand clenched into a fist, and she squared her shoulders, suddenly less afraid, less chilled by despair.

“I will,” she promised, her voice solemn. “I will. For you. For them. For me.”

Her shoulders hunched with her next breath and her breath came out in a sob. “Help me.”

He was across the room on a heartbeat and his arms were around her, holding her tightly, pressing her face against his neck.

“Shhh, Hawke. I am here. We will beat this. You just took the first step, talking about it. I am here, I will always be here.”

She cried, but for the first time, the weight in her chest had lifted a little, the voice berating her had grown a little quieter. For the first time, those were healing tears.

The next time he brought her daughters to her, she took a good, long look, and then said that they were beautiful. Her babies suckled at her breast, and for the first time, she didn't feel as if she was poisoning them with the darkness in her soul.

Fenris beamed at her, and she raised brilliant, tear drenched eyes to him.

“I love you, Fenris.”

He smiled, and bent down for a kiss.

 

* * *

 

_I will not lie. The road to recovery was difficult. She relapsed on some days and acted like the Hawke we all knew on others. It wasn’t easy. I won’t lie and tell you that one day she just woke up and all was well and fine. She did wake up, eventually, but she struggled to get there. It hurt to see, it hurt to witness it, but seeing her like she had been those first days was worse, so much worse._

_Fenris never left. Never accused her of everything. Never complained. He changed more dirty nappies and sang more lullabies than any father had. He held her hand throughout the ordeal, he was like  steady, unmovable rock for her to lean on._

_He hadn't been kidding when he’d told Aveline that he wasn’t planning on asking for forgiveness, he planned to earn it. And earn it he did, along with the respect of all of us- no, no respect. What I felt for the elf was near awe._

_And Hawke melted into a puddle every time she heard him sing to their babies, every time he got up in the middle of the night to care for them._

_Until one night, she got up. She picked her daughter Rose up and cuddled her close, and soothed her telling her that mommy was there, and there was nothing to worry about. Fenris told me about that night later, how he watched her nurse her babies on her own, change them as if she had been doing it forever, rocked them and sang to them until they had fallen asleep._

_She went back to bed and wiped the tears off her elf’s face and then made love to him ;Fenris had a soft, dreamy look in his eyes whenever he talked about that night, the same that people get when they remember their wedding day, or the day they proposed to the woman they loved._

_That night, they became family._

 


	45. Chapter 45

 

 

The first rays of light seeping through the drapes woke Fenris up with a start. He blinked, surprised to find himself upon a canopied bed, much softer than the cot he had been sleeping on for the past four months since Rose and Lilly had been born.

It had been an arrangement born of practicality at first; Hawke’s incision had not healed, and she needed her space. As Anders had told Fenris, ‘you poking her all night is not what she needs right now’. After she had sunk into her depression, he had taken to lying in bed with her, holding her while she often cried herself to sleep, and then slipped away to sleep on the cot so as not to disturb her if the babies needed changing or soothing. He still had to wake her about every three hours to breastfeed them, though. Anders had been opposed to the idea of hiring a wet nurse, arguing that they needed to maintain that fragile connection between Hawke and the babies.

Fenris had ached to see the anguished look on her face as she breastfed them. These should have been the happiest moments of her life; she should be looking down at those little suckling darlings with soft, love- filled eyes, not trying desperately to stop herself from crying because not even that most profound of motherly duties touched her soul.

It was late, in the wee hours of morning, much later than the time that the babies usually woke up demanding their midnight meal. As soon as that information filtered in, he jerked completely awake. Hawke was lying beside him, on her stomach, her face buried in the pillow, and the babies...he sprinted to their side, not even taking the time to throw any clothes on himself, and then let out a huge sigh of relief when he saw them slumbering peacefully, obviously already fed and changed.

For a moment- just for an awful, panic-stricken moment- he’d feared she had suddenly relapsed, and that he had failed them, all three of them, by allowing his vigil to lapse. His heart was squeezed by an invisible fist. He feared nothing more than having to live with the guilt of allowing the darkness that had come over Hawke to hurt their daughters. For one appalling, chilling moment, he had a vision of her, rocking back and forth with a vacant look in her face, while those little darlings that had so captured his heart lay on their bed, lifeless and still, their angelic faces blue. He would have lost all three of them, then- Hawke wouldn’t have been able to live with herself.

And he wouldn’t have been able to live with himself either –or without them.

But all his fears were unfounded: Hawke had again woken up on her own, and taken care of the babies in the dead of night while he slumbered peacefully after their lovemaking.

A lump formed in his throat at the thought. She had already missed four months of their lives, where she only fed them when someone carried them to her, most of the times not even looking at her two precious little girls. She’d spent countless hours lamenting her inability to care for them, to love them, paralysed by the fear that she might hurt them. She had missed their first smiles and the way their eyes followed familiar faces around the room. She had failed to notice their soft cooing sounds, the way their fists flailed around and their chubby little legs kicked in delight when they were being bathed.

 Their first baths. The adorable little booties that Merrill had knitted, using the softest of halla hair. She had missed Isabela singing them an adapted version of an old pirate song, that now featured unicorns and butterflies instead of pirates and whores; Varric gong cross-eyed from the stench while he was changing them. So many small moments, infinitely precious, that she would never get back. It was like she had been sleeping, caught in a horrid nightmare, and all the while life went on, leaving her behind. Fenris ached to witness that, to see her suffer so every day, but apart from being there for her, and taking care of her children as best as he could, there was nothing else he had been able to do.

 Last night had been like she had abruptly woken up, and although Fenris knew she still had a long way to go, he could also feel in his heart that the worst was now behind them. No doubt there would be days where she would feel helpless and morose again, no doubt the anxiety and the fear that she wasn’t a good mother would sometimes come back to haunt her eyes. But the worst was over. They could start living. The two of them – the _four_ of them – could be together. At last – at _long_ last – they could finally be a family.

He turned to look at her with a smile on his face, and his body hardening. Last night...there were no words to describe it. The way she had kissed him, whispering that she loved him as her fingers wiped the tears that had run down his face without him even realising it. The way she had let her mouth wander, kissing his face as if he was something precious. The way she had pushed him back and climbed over his body, blushing adorably all the while, and the way she had worshipped his flesh.

Fenris closed his eyes, savouring the memories, delighting in the flush of joy and pleasure they brought him even now. Her sweet, tender caresses had been a balm to his soul, a remedy to all the hurts and aches and long, strenuous months of worry. He had revelled in them, luxuriated in the gentleness of her touch, the whispered endearments, and the breathless chant his name had become on her lips. _Fenris, my Fenris_ –and small, nipping kisses along his neck. _Fenris, my love_ – and long, drugging, open-mouthed kisses along his chest. _My Fenris, my heart -_ and a flick of a tongue against his nipple, while two cat-like eyes looked to him with lust and love mixed in equal measures.

He had snapped at that, and the rest had been a blur of desire, a heedless rush for completion, a whirlwind of pleasure and joy. All he could remember now was how that first moment when he’d slipped inside her tight heat felt like…home, like a sojourn to a beloved country, all dreams and hopes coming to life at once. He’d held himself still inside her, memorising the moment, gazing into her eyes, his heart dissolving with love and pride- until she’d moaned his name, and told him she loved him again.

On hearing the words, he’d gone crazy, out of control in the sweet embrace of her arms. His prized discipline had snapped and all the passion lurking in his soul had rushed out to set them both on fire; uncontrollable, raging incredibly high, blazingly hot. He’d lost himself in her, died a little in her arms; died and then come back to life to find himself a changed man; a man who hadn't just had sex-it had been closer to a profound religious experience, what they had shared last night.

He bit his lip not to moan out loud. She had been so responsive, so attuned to him. He would never forget the way her body had writhed underneath him, how her nails had scored down his back, how she had wrapped her legs around his waist and demanded, pleaded, _begged_ him to take her harder, to move faster, to come inside her, to give her his everything.

She stirred on the bed, stretching out an arm to find him, and once she realised he wasn’t there, she jerked upright. Her eyes scanned around the room coming to rest on him, half turned to her, standing near the crib.

 But instead of smiling, she pulled the sheet up to her chest and froze, her eyes incredibly huge on a deadly pale face. Fenris’ smile died on his face, and an icy hand ran down his spine, leaving chills of trepidation behind.

“Was it that bad?” she asked, and pain shot through him. No, then; all hurts had not been taken away. All trust had not been restored, after all. He still hadn’t proven himself to her. Not yet.

And maybe...maybe he never would. Maybe the hurt he had caused her was too great, too deep to ever be fully healed. Maybe he was fighting a losing battle.

Hope and joy withered abruptly, and his heart fell.

_Maker, not again._

* * *

Hawke thought she was in a nightmare, locked in a terrifying moment of déjà vu and unable to snap out of it. His posture, as he stood with his back half turned to her, his bent head, the thoughtful expression on his face...it was as if that night long ago when he had walked away from her, dismissing her love and tears as a simple infatuation, was happening all over again.

Her heart clenched with a sudden jolt of pain that seared her soul, stole her breath, and numbed her mind. She looked at him, her lips wobbly and her eyes huge, standing there next to the crib, all her dreams and hopes crumbling to dust. She had thrown her fragile heart at his feet last night, putting all the trust and love that had remained in her soul in his hands. Was she doomed to see them crushed again? It had been a leap of faith, giving herself to him again- had she jumped to her own destruction?

“Was it _that_ bad?” she asked, then cringed, as the memory of the last time she had asked that slammed into her brain with all the violence of a roaring dragon.

He turned to her, a jolt of what looked like surprise jerking his body. He flinched at her words, and then his eyes closed and an incredibly sad, forlorn look crossed his face, which only made the dark fear that had been living inside her all this time rear its ugly head and snicker at her. That dark, malicious voice taunted her, mocked her for being gullible enough to believe this was real- that this time she could have everything.

“Oh, Maker!” she gasped. “Maker, not _again_!”

She hid her face in her hands, mortified at being caught so vulnerable again, just as she had been starting to regain herself, just as she was beginning to believe everything would be okay for once, just as she had managed to convince herself that things would start looking up. She had gone to sleep a happy, content woman, dreaming of the days to come of the love and companionship that would no doubt fill her every moment from now on- and this is what she was waking up to.

Rejection, all over again.

She jerked as if electricity had gone through her at the touch of a hand on her hair, and she lowered her hands to look at him.

Sad eyes, brimming with anguish met hers, forcing her breath to whoosh out of her in a choked gasp. And then her temper woke up from its long hibernation, roaring to life with a vengeance. She slapped his hand away and scooted clear to the other side of the bed, her eyes narrowed.

“Don’t coddle me,” she spat out, her fists clenched tight. “ You’ve changed your mind, again, haven’t you?”

He visibly recoiled, before surprisingly, he let out a little bitter chuckle and slapped his hand on his face. _Oh, for the love of the Maker_. Had the little idiot really thought that he would leave her again? Did she really have so little faith in him? Didn't last night mean anything to her? And he had allowed himself to lose hope once more, to be whipped like a puppy by one of her wary, mistrustful looks. He had – for one brief moment- given up again, and that had been inexcusable, because, _damn_ _it_ , they should both have known better by now than to let old hurts poison their souls.

“Oh, Hawke,” he murmured. “Such a pair of idiots we both are.”

Confusion replaced her anger and she just sat there, puzzling over his words, the inexplicable frown of bitterness on his face. But before she had time to react, she found herself splayed across the bed, his weight pinning her, her hands thrust up above her head and held down by his.

“Listen to me,” he growled, and she opened her eyes to stare deep into those incredibly green eyes, where irritation was battling with frustration. She struggled against him, and he pushed her down more forcefully. “Hawke,” his voice rumbled in a low, warning timbre. “Settle down and listen. LISTEN. For once in your life, really, _really_ listen, for I will only say this once more, and never again.”

She stilled, her lip pouting in what was first petulance and then resignation. She looked away, unable to bear the weight of his stare. Had she misunderstood everything? Had she overreacted? Had she behaved like a scared, terrified little girl?

“Eyes on me,” he growled and she immediately, instinctively obeyed, and was once again caught in those expressive eyes, mesmerised by the wealth of emotion in his gaze. He seemed to be relieved, annoyed, and frustrated in equal measures, and there was something dark, some violent spark of possession –or it could be hunger, she couldn’t tell- shimmering in those depths.

“What?” she irritably hissed and then he sighed and his lips were on hers, battling for dominance, for her submission. She tried to hold out, she really did, but when that velvety soft tongue of his caressed her lip, seeking entrance, she couldn’t resist. With a little breathless moan she went boneless underneath him, and opened her mouth to grant him entrance; the kiss immediately turned heated, a battle of tongues and teeth and lips. His taste flooded her, like a heady aphrodisiac, like a rich, intoxicating drug- wine, mint, and a taste that was nothing but pure Fenris, musky and totally male.

She realised with a gasp that this wasn’t just a kiss; this was a statement of intent. This was Fenris making love to her with his mouth, staking his claim on her with the bold, ravenous thrusts of his tongue inside her mouth. This was Fenris telling her that he would not tolerate anything else coming between him and the woman he had chosen, not even their own fears. It went on forever it seemed; time stood still, leaving no other sound in the room than the panting of their breaths and their heartbeats thundering together. One of her hands was released as he suddenly fumbled to yank the sheet away from between them, and then he was inside her, hot and hard, incredibly deep. She arched up, and he threw his head back and moaned her name, his velvety voice hoarse with pleasure and relief.

Hawke panted for breath, praying for a sliver of sanity to remain, for her brain to actually work through the sudden bliss of his possession. She moaned his name, her head thrashing on the pillow as he held himself still, pushing deep inside her; her womanly core was already fluttering around his length, welcoming his harsh penetration, aching for it. Her body was wound tight as a coiled spring within seconds. The suddenness and the quickness of her response left her mind reeling, floundering in pleasure, her body electrified with desire and the need for completion.

One hand grasped her chin; his foggy eyes- dilated to nearly all black- once again captured hers.

“I am yours,” he ground out, hissing as her body tightened even more around him at his declaration. “You are mine. I will not have you questioning this again. I have had enough.”

His words were punctuated with a surging, harsh thrust inside her, and that was all it took for her to dissolve and her body to fly into space. She writhed underneath him, suddenly mindless with pleasure, every muscle in her body clenching with the release that rushed through her. Fenris trembled above her, holding on to his control by a thread, moaning her name as her body clenched once more then relaxed. Beads of sweat trickled into his eyes, but he held on until her eyes slid open again, and she gave him an adorably confused, shattered look.

“Say yes. Say you are mine,” he hissed, his body battling for control, the urge to take her hard and fast imperative, as crucial to his survival as was his next breath. “Say you will never doubt this,” and he thrust inside her again, “ever again. Say we belong together.”

She nodded, then moaned again, and her legs climbed to wrap around his slim waist, drawing him even deeper inside her velvety, blistering depths. “Yours. Never again. Fenris. Mine.” The disjointed, choppy syllables were the best she could manage, but were all he needed to hear.

He tightened his hold on her, his eyes pinning her with such passion that she felt like she was drowning in them. “This stops now. You either love me or you don’t. You either trust me or you don’t. You either take me back,” he bent to capture her lips in a searing, scorching kiss, “or you do not. But take _all of me_ back, Hawke.” His hoarse, guttural voice broke, his eyes pleaded with her. “My body, my heart, my soul. And give me yours.”

 She didn't even need to think about it- her very soul gave the answer, effortlessly, without any more doubt, without holding back. “Everything. All of it,” she whimpered. “My love, my heart, my soul. _Yours_ , Fenris. They have always been yours.”

She arched upwards, trying to make him move, and with a heady, intoxicating growl, he let go; all she could do after that was bite her lip to cut off a primal scream as he took her like a wild storm.

Later, she would think that his thrusts had hammered their agreement in stone, like a contract that would never be breached, like a vow that would never be broken.

He was truly hers.

When it was over, they collapsed on the bed, panting and trembling in the aftermath, and thanking their lucky stars that both babies were heavy sleepers. Hawke groaned and hid her face in the pillow, certain that the whole household had gotten wind of what they had been doing, especially when the headboard had started thumping against the wall.

A little whimper sounded from the crib, and Fenris rose on wobbly legs to check on the babies, then, after rocking them for a while and cooing to them in his hoarse, baritone voice, he returned to the bed. Hawke raised her head to look at him as he petted the sweat-slicked skin of her back, his slender, rough fingers trailing down her spine.

“I’m sorry,” they said in unison, then looked at each other, blushed and chuckled.

“Did I hurt you?” Fenris ran his hand even lower, over the dip at the small of her back, then down over one curvy, luscious cheek. “I was rough. I...it won’t happen again.”

Hawke shivered under his touch and arched her back, inviting him to pet her like this a little longer. “No?” she pouted. “Why not?”

The elf raised surprised eyes to her. “I was under the impression you would...prefer me to be more...affectionate,” he mumbled after a minute, mesmerised by the way her alabaster skin contrasted with the bronze of his.

She turned on her back, smiling sweetly at him. “ Fenris, I doubt your ego needs stroking, but I...I never thought it would be like this. I love it,” she blushed, “ any way you give it to me. Slow, tender, fast, hard… It doesn’t matter.”

Fenris would have answered her if his mouth hadn't gone dry at the sight of her pert breasts, heavy with milk and crowned by dusky brown nipples that jutted prettily and begged for his mouth. He felt a little ashamed of himself. He hadn't taken the time to worship her body as it deserved; every one of their couplings had been hurried, lacking finesse. He swore he would rectify that. Indeed, he would start right now.

But she was talking again, and he made an effort to focus on her face and the words leaving her smiling mouth, rather than those mouth-watering nipples that were just begging to be licked.

“Ah, nice,” she drawled. “As I was saying, my eyes are up here, Fenris,” she gave him a little lopsided smirk to which he replied with one of his own. Suddenly, he felt like he was walking in a dream. It couldn’t be so easy, could it? This sense of familiarity, of ease, of everything finally clicking into place...could he really relax?

The bigger question was this: had she really forgiven him? Had she meant the words she’d said, just like he had meant his? Or would she turn to him with accusing, distrusting eyes at his first misstep? Would he always have to walk on eggshells around her, lest he provoke her quicksilver temper?

Some of his uncertainty must have shown in his eyes, because she sighed and her smile fell. “I said I was sorry,” she uncannily guessed at his reason for upset. “I will try not to do it again.”

“Try?” he shook his head. “I want to be forgiven, Hawke. Half measures will not do.”

She looked away, then turned back to him and her eyes went soft. A hand rose to touch a scar on her breast, a scar in the shape of a human bite, a vicious reminder of her brutal rape.

“Fenris...do you see this?” he narrowed his eyes at the scar, confused and angry with the men that had once violated her, wanting nothing more to have them here in front of him so he could rip their hearts out. “It caused me pain, once. I will always remember the pain...but I do not dwell on it. There are, and always will be, moments when the memory comes back. But I try to rise over it.”

Fenris’ forehead scrunched in confusion. Was she comparing him to - to those...

“You hurt me, too,” she went on, moving her hand over her heart. “You caused me pain here. The scar is still there, and it will probably never completely disappear.. But this, too, I can rise above.”

Eyes huge with hope and tenderness, and brimming with guilt, rose to meet hers. “I am truly sorry, Hawke.”

“Don’t be. It’s in the past. It’s forgiven,” she smiled sweetly at him. “But it can never be totally forgotten, Fenris. All I can promise you to do is to try and rise above it. Isn’t this all any of us can do? All I can do, when I remember when you hurt me, is to also remember that I love you, and you love me, and that we have both grown since then. That you will never again hurt me intentionally.”

He looked away and then smiled and his eyes grew soft. He bent his head to her as an answer, and trailed soft, tender lips over the scar on her breast, then down to the place where her heart was beating, already starting to gallop under his kiss.

“I understand, Hawke. Perhaps it is the memory of pain that makes _this_ , between us,” and he flicked his tongue over one nipple, making her moan brokenly, “more precious. Perhaps we are like the flowers you love so much; for them to bloom, they must first withstand the winter.”

“And what a winter this have been, you damned poetic elf,” she muttered, a laugh hidden in her voice, before letting her head loll back and twining her hands in his hair, trying to press that mouth that was tormenting her with slight flicks and small nips closer to her flesh.

He chuckled, and then one of her nipples was sucked deep into his mouth; the sweet, slightly salty taste of her milk flooded his mouth and he shivered, amazed that she was allowing him this. She gasped as he switched to her other breast, and gathered up the drops of milk that had escaped her, lapping at her with soft, whispered sighs at her taste, her scent, the softness of her skin.

She thought he would be put off by the changes pregnancy had brought to her body; her breasts were swollen and leaking, her abdomen was flabby and there was a new scar, still reddish pink, now slashing from one side of her belly to the other, just above her pubic mound. She thought he wouldn’t like her body anymore, that now that her belly was ridged with stretch marks he would find her lacking. She was clearly wrong. He worshipped every single line on her body with his lips and tongue, he laid soft, adoring kisses on every inch of her, every scar, muttering that they were badges of honour and he was proud of them, proud of her, and that they made her infinitely more beautiful.

She had long ago fallen back on the bed, luxuriating in the soft, tender caresses, in his whispered endearments, feeling her heart burst with happiness and love; this was just as good as the explosive, mind-shattering climaxes he gave her when he took her like a man possessed. This was familiarity, this was affection, this was everything she had been starved for. Hesitantly, still sexually unsure of herself, she touched him back, watching in awe how her gentle touch affected him, how he almost purred under her touch.

They spent the rest of the early morning like this, in languid, mind-numbing pleasure, exchanging caresses and discovering each other’s bodies, finding pleasure spots and ticklish spots, memorising scents and textures and reactions. She blushed with the way he touched her more than once, and he had to bite his knuckles not to cry out when she decided that what was good for the goose was good for the gander, damn him, and she was not going to let herself be kept back by fear or shyness.

She found out- to her complete shock- that had fate been kinder she would have been a totally different person. She discovered that there was a lustful, sensual side to her; one that revelled in driving him crazy, that rejoiced in his whimpering half moans as she pleasured him. She found a little minx living deep inside her soul, waiting for the chance to be let out to play; and what a toy she had been given! Hawke would never forget that image: Fenris’ lean, muscled body arched with pleasure, his silvery markings pulsing with his heartbeat, his eyes shut tight and his lip caught between white teeth as he desperately tried to keep his moans in.

It was only fair; hadn't he pushed her over the edge more times than she could count, his head between her thighs, tormenting her with tongue and lips and fingers? Hadn't he drunk down her climax like it had been the finest ambrosia? Hadn't he explored every inch of her, mapping her body with his touch?

If it hadn't been for their stomachs growling –loudly- she would never have stopped, caught by a nearly cannibalistic urge to taste him all, to take him into her, to be one, forever connected. And she doubted he could have stopped either; if this tactile, luxurious contentment, this need to touch and be touched was pressing for her, how much worse could it have been for him? He had been deprived of the simple comfort of a soft touch for most of his life. He had known nothing but the cruel touch of depravity.

Just the fact that he was allowing her to touch him like this was precious to her.

But then her stomach once again protested and she watched him with a smile as he reluctantly got out of bed and pulled up a pair of tight leather leggings, admiring the way his muscles bunched and moved under bronzed skin then made the mistake of turning on her stomach.

Fenris paused, midway through his question of what she would like to eat, and groaned as that luscious ass was presented; the already confining leathers became instantly tighter, and he gave a little self-deprecating nod to his hardening length, then to Hawke, who was looking at him over her creamy shoulder with a knowing smirk.

“Venhedis...” he groaned, and within seconds he was naked again and settling his weight on her, his voice rough by her ear, as he sank inside her to the hilt.

The laugh that had been about to escape whooshed out of her. In its place was her voice moaning his name, her body catching on fire once more. Tenderness had been grand, but this...this was priceless, her wolf growling in her ear as he took her.

Breakfast could wait.

* * *

Anders was waiting for Fenris at the bottom of the stairs when he went down to the kitchen to grab something to eat; Hawke had wanted them to go down together, but he was reluctant to share her with anyone else than the babies right now. His feelings were too raw, his fear of the near-disaster they had just averted too recent.

The healer grabbed onto his arm and regarded him with an irked expression. Fenris froze, looked down at the hand that grabbed his forearm, and his eyes rose to meet Anders’ with a look that promised violence if he dared do that again.

The healer didn't flinch under that flinty green stare, only rolled his eyes, and Fenris added to the menace of his posture by letting out a low growl.

“Oh, stop growling and snapping, you mongrel,” Anders groused, but released his arm, nevertheless. He then dug into his pocket and slapped a small vial on Fenris’ hand. “Don’t get her pregnant. Make her take this.”

The elf looked at the little vial in his hand and went a little pale, then blushed violently. Maker. He...he hadn't even thought of...

Anders watched him with a small smile curving his lips. “That pain you feel right now...” he smirked, enjoying the sight of the elf without his usual composure, “It’s reality biting you right in the ass.”

The warrior shook his head to clear away the shock and then let out a little chuckle. “We can safely say reality’s fangs are firmly embedded in my posterior, yes.” He looked at the small vial again and the smile faded as worry rose in his mind. Would she take it? And if she didn't...

“What is the danger if she gets pregnant again?”

Anders straightened abruptly, all his mirth leaving him, and going tense within a blink of an eye. “Don’t even think of it, elf!” he warned the other man darkly. “She needs to wait at least one year. If she gets pregnant right now, her womb might not take it. She could die. Plus,” he snuck a look to the door of Hawke’s room and lowered his voice, “do you really think she can handle another baby right now?”

 Fenris nodded in agreement but refrained from telling Anders that, if need be, she could take anything; she was one of those people that would bend but not break. She was stronger than any of them- but weaker at the same time. She was like a finely forged steel sword, tough and resilient- deadly even- but one blow on a hidden flaw and it could shatter.

Her weakness, her only weakness, was love. She was defenceless against it. She had both been craving and fighting it all her life, and his betrayal of the love she had for him had nearly broken her. Love had governed all her life- she came to Kirkwall for love of her family, braved the Deep Roads for them. She fought the Arishok for love of the city she lived in and the traitorous love of a friend. She had battled her demons and her fears to offer love to him and it had been thrown back in her face- and still she loved him. This strange illness had affected her, not letting her offer her babies love, and she fought with all her heart to overcome it.

Everything she had ever done was for love.

Sighing, he clenched his fist around the little vial in his hand and nodded curtly to the healer before continuing to the kitchen. Inside him, a little voice lamented the fact that he would have to wait, or perhaps forfeit his dream of his own child with Hawke. If it endangered her life, or if there was a danger of watching her sink into depression again, then...then he would willingly kiss that dream away and make sure she drank the potion in his hand, even if he had to force it down her throat himself.

* * *

Hawke realised with a little jolt of anxiety that, perhaps for the first time, Fenris had left her all alone with her daughters. She approached the crib and looked down on her still sleeping babies, biting her lip. A wave of sadness came over her. She...she didn't know who was who. She had missed so much.

_Maker, what kind of mother can’t tell her own babies apart?_

The door opened, and Fenris walked in, carrying a tray piled high with food. He paused when he saw her near the crib, and Hawke searched his face, looking for any sign that he might not trust her near the little girls. But instead he smiled and came closer, slipping an arm around her waist. A jolt of joy shot through him when she easily relaxed and rested her head on his shoulder.

Somehow along the line, Fenris had become quite adept at reading the multitude of emotions that played across Hawke’s face; he had learned to understand what it was that was troubling her. It was an uncanny ability that would have saved them both a lot of pain if it had appeared in the past; but he had been dense back then, and fighting his feelings for Hawke with all that he was. Now that he had accepted them and they blossomed, so did his awareness of her and what she might be feeling.

She was sad and feeling guilty again, all because she had missed so much of the first months of her babies’ lives. His arm tightened around her, and he laid a gentle kiss on the top of her head. She looked up to him, with tears glistening in her eyes.

“They must hate me,” she sniffled. “ I’m a horrible mother.”

Fenris rolled his eyes, but before he had a chance to answer her, as if on cue, one of the babies woke up and started fussing.

Fenris smiled as her first, instinctive movement was to reach down and pat the crying baby’s back, cooing softly. The infant stopped her crying and raised her head looking for the source of that hand, her little head still not completely steady on her frail neck. Fenris scooped her up and handed her to Hawke, noting that she hesitated for just one second, before cuddling the baby close. He watched, holding his breath. _Don’t cry, don’t cry, please, Rose, don’t cry._ He knew that if the baby showed signs of fear at being held by her own mother, it would crush Hawke. It would be the verification to the words she had just uttered; he knew it was complete nonsense of course, but _she_ thought it was true. If Rose started crying, Hawke would see it as rejection, and have her heart once again broken by grief and guilt.

But Rose, bless her heart, was a sweet baby with a sunny disposition, and more agreeable than her sister. She regarded her mother with those huge amber eyes of hers, then smiled and tried to stick her whole fist in her mouth, gnawing on it, perfectly at ease.

“See, Hawke?” Fenris’ voice was soft. “She knows who her mother is. She feels safe. She _is_ safe.”

 Hawke’s face was stricken when she looked at him, tears cutting tracts on her cheeks. “I don’t know her name,” she whispered, trying valiantly not to start sobbing. “Who of the two is she?”

Fenris drew her in his arms, his heart breaking for the pain she was still feeling, trapping the baby that started babbling and trying to stick her fingers in his mouth between them.

“This is Rose,” he told Hawke, bending his head to kiss her, “Rose Leandra Hawke.”

He stepped back and bent to pick up the other baby up, which started fussing at having her sleep interrupted. “And this is Lilly Bethany Hawke. Otherwise known as ‘hellion’, ‘pouter’ and ‘spitter’.”

A little laugh escaped Hawke and she leaned in to rest her head on his shoulder again, two babies cradled between them now. Her heart felt huge in her chest, overflowing with love for the elf that had named her daughters, taken care of them, stood vigil over her while she was battling her own personal demons.

That is how Varric found them when he opened the door a few minutes later, breathless and flustered. He paused for just one second, taking in the image in front of him, the elf and Hawke embraced with each holding a baby on their shoulder and sighed.

“Awww...lovely image that, and I hate to be the bearer of ill news, but...Hawke. Meredith has requested to see you.”

* * *

_Ah, yes, I know what you are all thinking...Hawke and Fenris never got a moment of peace, right? It sure seemed that way. Problem after problem after problem, one heap of steaming nug shit piled on top of the last one..._

_But no. This time, they had peace. At that moment in time, I had no idea of what had gone on between them that night- Fenris talked to me about it years later, one night in front of the fire, when he had drank a few glasses too many. Yeah, I already knew they had slept together, everybody did. But that wasn’t just it._

_That night they became a family, I think I told you that. But it went much further than that. There was this aura of peace, of belonging...shit, even I don’t know how to explain it. Fenris was calm, controlled, at ease. Hawke was less angry. I don’t know... Two pieces of a half had reunited, I guess, and none of them looked so...incomplete any more._

_You’d think that at some point it would get old, that this simmering passion between them would cool down, that the blind adoration blazing in their eyes would one day come to lessen. Well, no. It never did. Thirty years, give or take. I’m not saying they didn't fight, because they did...Boy, did they ever! Fights that nearly brought the roof down. I’m not saying they didn't disagree, because BOY, they did. I’m not saying that everything was rainbows and unicorns and tralala. It wasn’t. They argued, they fought, they bickered._

_And they always made up. Yes, that way. I think Leto was the result of one such ‘making-up’...and of Hawke ‘forgetting’ to take that potion. Did she want to get pregnant by Fenris? You bet. Wasn’t she afraid to go through the same again? Oh, you bet. _

_But she trusted him to be there. She trusted him to love her. She trusted that Fenris would never let her suffer alone; and he trusted that no matter what, in the end, her love for him would see her through._

_I guess they trusted each other as only people that have gone through the most horrid ordeals together can, they had re-forged their trust and love in such a strong, unbreakable shield, that nothing could penetrate it. Some people say that once glass breaks, nothing can glue it back together, but they did- and so seamlessly, so perfectly, that it was like it had never broken._

_It would seem that this was at last going to be a time to relax and regroup and finally enjoy life...They had finally gotten back together, Hawke was coming out of that horrid depression, their children- by then every one of us saw the girls as being Fenris’- were healthy, and growing like weeds. It seemed this was the time to build, to enjoy the simple pleasures of life, it was a time for families, and friends, and dinners next to the fire, and babies giggling._

_And then Meredith had to go and fuck things up. But this time...boy, oh, boy. She was in for a rude awakening. Fenris on his own was a mean killing machine. Hawke on her own was the stuff of nightmares. Both of them, together, and pissed...trust me. You didn’t want that._

_What? You thought Fenris had forgotten about Meredith’s role in the whole Sebastian-Danarius debacle? Not likely. He was just waiting for Hawke to get better. To tell you the truth, everyone was waiting for Hawke to get better. Elthina was chomping at the bit to declare one of her daughters the next ruler of Starkhaven; Sebastian’s cousin was waiting for her to step down and offer him her support. Meredith was waiting...who knows what that crack-pot was waiting for. Probably for all the mages to magically drop dead._

_And now that Hawke was finally better...shit was about to start flying._

 


	46. Chapter 46

Hawke stood in front of her armour for a long moment, sighing and looking over each piece. Fenris was already buckling on his spiked gauntlets, his sword propped up against the wall, and she still stood in her thin leather tunic and leggings, a thoughtful, pensive expression on her face.

Varric burst in, took a look at both of them, then smiled like an imp.

“I told you not to eat so much while pregnant, Hawke, didn't I?” his lips twitched. “Let me remind you once more, metal doesn’t stretch. Let’s see you try to fit into that thing, now.”

Fenris didn't even raise his head. “Dwarf, have a care. If you call Hawke fat again, I will personally feed you to a dragon.”

She sent the elf a small smile, but the tightness around her mouth remained. Totally ignoring Varric –at least for the time being, because she fully intended to take him to task later- she run a hand down the metal or her chestplate, then watched as Fenris strapped on his sword.

“One of us should stay here,” she finally said, looking from him to the crib next to her bed. “Just in case.”

“Don’t tell me you’re going to start behaving like those parents that don’t board the same ship so their kids won’t be left orphans in case it sinks?” Varric looked from one to the other, noting that Hawke’s expression became more pensive at his words, while Fenris immediately turned defensive.

“If you even _think_ I will let you face that poisonous viper of a woman alone...” Fenris shot at Hawke, but she just gave him a beseeching look and his annoyance died out. “I will not stay here while you risk your life. I cannot. Do not ask it of me.”

“Oh, come on, Hawke.” Varric noted that she was looking around frantically, as if seeking a way to convince Fenris that one of them should stay behind in case this actually _was_ a trap. “Neither of you is going to die, and even if you do, Anders and Isabela and I will take care of the little tykes for you.”

Fenris’ eyes blew wide in sudden panic, which was clearly reflected in Hawke’s and they both gulped.

“I’ll stay,” Fenris said simply.

“Hey! I stand offended!”

“Stand any blighted way you wish, Varric. I will not have my girls raised by the likes of the three of you; they’d turn into mage-loving whores with cesspits for mouths.”

Varric sighed and rolled his eyes. “Look, you two. It’s simple. I know you’re parents and shit, and you worry about your girls, but the point is this: Hawke hasn’t really fought in months. And _if_ this a trap, the best way you, my broody elf, can ensure that the girls are not orphaned is to go with her. We need to put on a show of power. Now get your asses in gear; Meredith is waiting.”

“I can deal with Meredith,” Hawke protested, while Fenris looked torn, knowing that the dwarf was right, and still reeling from the idea that if something happened to both him and Hawke, the girls would be left alone.

“Sure you can, Hawke,” Varric tried to placate her. “But you shouldn’t have to, not alone. Not after all you’ve been through.”

“That is it.” Fenris picked his sword up again.  “I am coming.”

“Make up your mind, Elf, you’re _pussy_ footing here.”

“Your mouth needs washing with lye soap, dwarf.”

 “Pfftt...” Varric scoffed. “My mother tried. Didn't work.”

* * *

Apparently, it wasn’t just Varric who was determined that she shouldn’t have to face Meredith alone, because the whole group had amassed and was waiting for her outside the door when she stepped out of her mansion, fully decked into her champion armour. She just looked at them all, then gently- but firmly- asked  Merrill to stay behind; there was no reason to expose the mages in her group to templars, especially Merrill. At that thought, she looked around, searching for a familiar blond figure and a mouldy, feathered coat, and her brow creased when she didn't spot him anywhere.

“Where’s Anders?” she asked Isabela.

The pirate shrugged. “Last time I saw him was two days ago, and he was fine. Better than fine, if you get my drift,” she winked. “He was _amazing_. That electricity trick of his, man, the things that mage can do with his fingers...”

“Isabela. There is a thing as too much information, you know,” Varric cringed. “You getting zapped in your...honey pot...is one of them.”

Isabela’s eyes tinkled. “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it, Varric.”

“Disturbing visual, that,” Fenris mumbled.

Hawke interrupted the light-hearted barter with an impatient gesture. “ We can’t afford to stand around here with our thumbs up our asses while Anders and his magic fingers recover from Isabela’s tender attentions. We need to go. Maybe it’s best that he doesn’t tag along. I’d hate to be in the same room if Justice decided to come out and play with Meredith.”

Fenris nodded and leaned in to nuzzle her cheek, hoping to reassure her. The rest of the group looked on with wide eyes, still not used to such open signs of affection from the taciturn elf, nor to the soft, love-stricken look in Hawke’s eyes.

“Ahem,” Varric broke the tender moment. “Let’s get going then, my lovebirds. We’re burning daylight here. And could you cut it out with the mushy stuff? Some of us just had breakfast.”

“Oh, hush, you!” Merrill smacked his arm. “They’re adorable.”

“We’re nothing of the sort,” Fenris drew back, schooling his expression back into a scowl.

“Let’s go, then,” Hawke heaved a deep, calming breath. “But _slowly_ , people. It won’t do to have Meredith call and the Champion of Kirkwall rush to her side like a beaten puppy. If she wants to talk to me, she will do so at _my_ leisure.”

“Spoken like a true Champion, Hawke,” Aveline smiled proudly.

* * *

When they reached the Gallows–hours later, having taken time to chat and browse at every market stall- a clearly anxious Cullen was waiting for them at the gate, flanked by four burly, stern-faced templars Hawke had never seen before. Just the way the Knight Captain kept his body and face tense so as not to fidget in nervousness made her hackles rise in alarm. Something was wrong.

She exchanged a look with Varric and Fenris, then quickly glanced at all the members in her group, noting with satisfaction that they were all vigilant, and looking at the unknown templars with speculative, narrowed eyes. None of them made any move to greet Cullen, and she realised that they all understood the implication of the presence of these four unknown men: they were Meredith’s lackeys, and Cullen was being watched.

“Knight Captain Cullen,” she greeted her friend icily. “I believe I am expected.”

Some of Cullen’s nervousness left his eyes, and a fleeting, barely-there smile ghosted across his lips. “Yes, Champion,” he replied, just as icily. “You have been expected for quite some time now, in fact.”

“I was quite busy, Knight Captain,” Hawke offered with an aloof look, raising a gauntleted hand to casually observe her clawed nails. “I was shopping.”

The four templars surrounding Cullen took a few menacing steps forward at that, and one of them spoke in a faintly Orlesian-accented voice. “Follow me, Champion,” he all but commanded.

“You didn't say the magic word,” Varric sneered. “It’s ‘please’. Or _s’il vous plait_ , if it suits you better.”

The tall man just narrowed his eyes at Varric, then gestured for Hawke to follow.

“Bah. Orlesians...” Varric spat. “No manners whatsoever.”

As the group progressed through the courtyard, all eyes trained on them, Cullen fell to Hawke’s side while the four templars split up, two taking the front and two trailing close behind them. Hawke could see that Cullen wanted to talk to her, but the presence of the four templars - hands on the hilts of their swords and eyes unflinchingly watching them- was keeping him from doing so.

She exchanged an imperceptible look with Varric and Isabela, and they both nodded.

“Oh, look! There’s Solivitus! I must go talk to him, I need some of that rash cream of his!” Isabela exclaimed, and broke off from the group, heading towards the stalls. One of the templars immediately broke formation to trail her and the others stopped, watching the lithe pirate as she evaded the man’s efforts to bring her back.

“Hey! Isn’t that Kieran? I have to give him a message from his sister,” Varric broke off the group too, heading in the opposite direction, one of the templars trying in vain to stop him. “Oi! Kieran! Sorry, Hawke, I’ll be right back!” he added over his shoulder, winking cheekily.

Aveline was quick to catch on, and she headed in the other direction while drawing her sword. “That looks like the man we have been hunting for weeks; excuse me, but I need to see to this. Guard business.” The third templar drew his sword as he made to go after her. Seeing his comrades scatter, the last one, the one who was obviously in charge, let a crude curse slip through his lips. He took a few steps and bellowed for his men to return to their position, swearing in Olresian.

“Meredith has Anders.” Cullen urgently whispered to Hawke. “She’s planning to use his safety as leverage against you. Be careful.”

And then he half drew his sword and –leaving a stunned Hawke behind- he made half-hearted attempts to corral her errant group members back and to calm the templar down.

Hawke’s eyes were flashing with rage when they found Fenris’, and she noted that he had clenched his fists so tight that those spiky talons must have embedded themselves in his flesh. A faint blue glow glinted underneath his armour and he looked towards the templars, death in his eyes.

“Just give the word,” he told her, and Hawke made a visible effort to harness her temper and stop herself from opening her mouth and giving him free reign to kill everything and everyone on sight; Maker she wanted to, she wanted to rain pain and death on them all. But reason prevailed in her mind, a little voice telling her to wait, to calm down, to first make sure Anders was safe before she dealt with those bastards that had once more dared threaten what was hers.

She grasped on to Fenris’ forearm and their eyes met again, anger and rage burning deep, lips tight in righteous fury. “Wait. We must make sure he is safe. _Then_ we kill.”

He nodded once, baring his teeth in a snarl like a rabid wolf before his face melted into its usual stoic, composed mask. “As you wish, Hawke,” he murmured, and she released the tension in her shoulders with a deep breath, schooling her features into a collected, calm expression again.

But rage still burned deep into both their eyes; their comrades saw it and recognised it for what it was when they again reached their sides. They immediately understood.

Shit was about to fly.

 

* * *

When the door to Meredith’s office opened, Hawke walked in - not like a guest, meekly led by an escort of broad-shouldered men like she had something to apologise for - instead, she pushed by the Orlesian templar that was guarding the door and crossed her arms on her chest.

“Meredith.” She didn't bother with any honorifics or titles. “You asked to see the Champion of Kirkwall?”

Fenris pushed forward as well, and stood side-by-side with Hawke, the two of them projecting an air of authority and power, standing tall and proud, looking at the Knight Commander with unflinching gazes. Meredith looked from one to the other, then her lips tightened and she moved behind her desk, reflexively putting distance between herself and the pair that excluded so much rage and cold disdain, making the very air in the room hard to breathe.

“Champion,” Meredith said, her voice cold. “Congratulations on the birth of your children, first of all. Two little girls, I have been informed?”

The tension in the room went up a notch. “Yes,” Hawke spat through clenched teeth. “Thank you.”

“And my condolences on the passing of their father, as well, Champion.”

“Their father is alive and well,” Hawke sneered. “He is standing by my side.”

 A cold hateful glare in Fenris’ direction –which was given back ten times over- and Meredith focused on Hawke again. “I meant their biological father, Champion: Prince Sebastian of Starkhaven. I have heard some disturbing rumours. I understand that he was in league with a blood mage?”

“Drop the act, Meredith,” Hawke said as she took one menacing step forward. “It doesn’t become you.”

A fake look of confusion crossed Meredith’s face, and then she looked away. “I was under the impression that we were allies in this endeavour to rid Starkhaven of a man that was clearly deranged, Champion. Yet, I am told by my sources...”

“She means spies,” Varric smoothly cut in, gaining a frosty look from the Knight-Commander, who went on as if he hadn't even spoken.

“...by my sources, as I was saying, that you have taken steps to put his cousin on the throne. Wasn’t the original plan to have one of your daughters on the throne with you as regent? And you refused help from the men...”

“...She means lackeys...”

“The MEN I had assigned to you to protect you...”

“ ...she means to blatantly betray you....”

“Dwarf!” Meredith finally had enough with Varric’s running commentary. “Control your tongue before I cut it out!”

There was just enough time for everyone to blink before Meredith found herself with the tip of Hawke’s blade on her throat. Hawke had leapt on the desk like a cat, fires blazing in her eyes, while Fenris took the templars’ leader to the ground in a smooth, effortless motion, and held him down with a knee pushed into his spine and the spikes of his gauntlets on his jugular. The rest of the templars made a move to draw their swords, but one came face-to-face with Bianca, the other found two wickedly curved daggers crossed on his throat, and the last crumpled to the ground as a well-aimed pommel struck the back of his head.

Then all eyes turned to Hawke.

“Listen to me, Meredith,” Hawke spat through hate-clenched teeth, “and listen well. I will not have the people I care about threatened. I will not have you questioning my motives. I will not have you _breathing_ if I you cross me again.”

Meredith’s grey eyes glinted. “You have just made a very dangerous enemy, Champion. This will not go unpunished.”

Hawke pushed her sword a little closer as a warning, and a drop of blood welled from a tiny nick on the Knight Commander’s throat. “You are not listening, Meredith,” she admonished as she would a two year old. “I know what you did.” Belatedly, she thought to protect Cullen from Meredith’s ire, and quickly added, “One of your men talked. One of the men you had secretly ordered to aid Sebastian. You would have been dead the next day if I hadn't been in labour. But hear me once again, and this time, try to actually _listen_ : if you ever threaten anyone I hold dear I. WILL. KILL. YOU.”

She narrowed her eyes further, and a second drop of blood followed down the older woman’s throat as the sword pressed more insistently. “Now. Where is Anders?”

A look of surprise crossed the blonde woman’s eyes before they filled with hate once more. “Cullen has betrayed me, I see,” she sneered. “I will have his head for this.”

“Think again,” Hawke bared her teeth at her, bloodying her some more.  “He’s on that list of people I hold dear. Touch him, and I’ll have your liver and kidneys for dinner.”

The two women’s eyes clashed for long seconds; both were strong willed, stubborn creatures, used to power and to getting their own way. Both held power in the city, and were not used to having their indomitable will threatened or ignored. But this time, Meredith could see she was at a disadvantage, realising that if the Champion really had proof of her treachery, she could easily stir up trouble for her. She hoped the Champion was only bluffing when she’d said she had the confession of one of her men; Cullen would have been a great source of information, but Hawke had just owned up to the man, claiming him as one of her own people, under her protection. Meredith could not touch him without risking Hawke’s ire, and that irked her.

Cullen chose that moment to step into the room, and looking around he quickly assessed the situation and his options. He could stand by Hawke or stand by his Order, even though Meredith was clearly not to be trusted. It took him two seconds to reach his decision, rationalising that Hawke would need someone in the Order to help keep Meredith under watch.

“Step down Champion,” he drew his sword, his eyes pleading with Hawke. “Please, stop this madness.”

Fenris snarled at him from his position over the fallen templar, who found the perfect opportunity to buck wildly, trying to dislodge the elf from on top of him.

Hawke held Meredith’s eyes for a little longer, then withdrew her sword and turned to Cullen. She nodded to her comrades to release the templars, who all stood up – with the exception of the one still unconscious at Aveline’s feet- and dusted themselves muttering and cursing, and trying to salvage their pride.

“Take me to Anders,” she just said, and after Cullen had received an assenting nod from Meredith, he led them down to the dungeons.

“This isn’t over, Champion,” Hawke heard Meredith’s voice call out just as she was stepping out.

Varric sighed. “You should have killed her.”

“Seconded,” Fenris grumbled.

“Third-ed.”

“Fourth-ed.”

Cullen turned back. “Don’t tell anyone...but, yes, Hawke, you should have.”

* * *

 

_We found Anders hanging from a big metal ring in the dungeons, chained and gagged and obviously roughened up. His robes were missing, he was only in those soft leather trousers of his, and obviously, if the bruises and the gashes were any indication, the least of what they had done to him was to beat him up, poor thing._

_I don’t know exactly what they did to him, he never told us. He never told a soul. He was gruff and looked mortified afterwards, and didn't talk to any of us. Even Isabela couldn’t get through. He just paced the room, muttering about the damned templars, and how they had no right, and how he had been wrong not to listen to Justice, how he had failed every mage that ever lived by letting his righteous cause for mage freedom lapse._

_We were worried, that was for sure. Justice made more than one appearance that night, raging and destroying everything around him, and we had to lock Anders up in a spare bedroom for fear of what would happen. Hawke was crying outside the door as Anders- or Justice- ranted_ _and raved inside, begging him to forgive her for not being there to protect him, for letting him down. I don’t think Anders heard, though. I don’t think he_ could _hear. I don’t think Justice would have allowed it._

_I have no idea what happened in that dungeon, if he was beaten, berated, taunted, raped, all of the above or none of them. Ancestors only know what they did to him. But one thing was certain: Anders’ tenuous control over Justice seemed to have snapped; the spirit was out of control._

_In the months after the bet, Anders had found other things more important than his cause. First trying to erase his guilt over that stupid bet, then standing by Hawke’s side, then taking care of her while she suffered, protecting her from Sebastian, saving the elf, delivering her children… Anders had been caught up in it all, forgot to think about mage freedom, ignored Justice’s rumblings in order to help Hawke._

_But now...he had been rudely reminded what he had been striving for. Justice took centre stage, demanding that he concentrate on the plight of mages. He was another man, come next morning; all the bitterness and the rebellious indignation against the treatment of mages had come back with a vengeance._ Vengeance _had come back with a vengeance. And let me tell you...Justice was scary, but Vengeance....creepy-ass terrifying. No reason, no logic, no rationalising with him. No quarter given, no mercy._

_Justice was cruel. Justice was hard. But Vengeance was a monster._

_And whatever the templars had done made sure that Anders succumbed to that monster’s clutches; he could no longer stop him. Hell, I don’t even think he wanted to, anymore._

_Anders as we knew him....was gone._

 


	47. Chapter 47

Fenris walked with a brisk gait, avoiding the puddles the recent rain had left. Looking behind his shoulder, he made his way down the stairs that led from Hightown to Lowtown, making sure he was not followed. Bypassing the Lowtown market altogether, he kept to the shadows, trying to avoid being noticed by anyone who knew him.

Less than half an hour later, he was standing in front of the rickety door of Anders’ ramshackle clinic, scowling at the still unlit lantern. A man approached him hesitantly, cradling an arm that was wrapped in filthy, bloodied bandages.

“Do you know if the healer is in?” he asked, his face tight with pain. “I have been waiting for hours.”

Fenris sighed. “Did you knock?”

The man nodded, then pointed to a small group of people huddled together around a fire lit in a barrel further off. “These folks say the lantern hasn’t been lit in days. Some of them are very ill.”

Fenris looked over the pale, clammy faces, the desperation in the faces of the hunched figures of people clutching wailing babies, and his lips tightened. Anders had apparently not opened his clinic for days, and the people in Darktown were feeling his absence. Hawke had tried coming down and talking to him through the door, but he had made no move to acknowledge her, and she had returned home sad and pensive, worried out of her mind. Seeing her like this was torture for Fenris, so once she had lain down for a brief nap, he had taken the chance and come down here himself.

He knocked on the door once, cursing himself inside. If Hawke hadn’t been able to get through to Anders, what chance did he have? The mage and he had never been too amicable, even though they had made some overtures of friendship towards each other lately. And Fenris was enough of a pragmatist not to deny it; he was worried about Anders himself; he wasn’t here just for Hawke’s sake. He might still think Anders’ ideas about mage freedom a perilous, disastrous notion, and he would still defend to the death his belief that mages needed to be controlled, but...damn it. The man had been tortured. He had been snatched from inside his home in the dead of night, hung on a wall like a piece of meat and endured Maker knew what.

The people in this part of town needed him; the templars had been cruel enough to deprive them of the only person that had selflessly tried to help them. Anders had eased their burdens, curing them without thought of reward, always with unwavering devotion.

Anders might have been a lot of things that Fenris found dangerous, but one thing was certain: he was a good man, a good healer, and he did good work here; he did the Maker’s work.

He knocked again, a little more forcefully, and the man next to him sighed and turned away.

“It’s no use, Serah,” he said dejectedly. “The healer has abandoned us. We were lucky to have him for as long as we did.”

Fenris scowled some more as he watched the man shuffle his feet back to the other patients, then shoved violently against the flimsy door. The door gave out with a groan of rusty hinges and splintering wood, and Fenris squinted to make anything out in the dank, smelly interior. The mage must not have aired the place out for days; it reeked of stale air, human waste and old blood.

He took one of the lanterns from outside the door and lit it.  He then took a minute to close the entrance behind him as best as he could, using pieces of the broken door because all the people waiting outside started gathering, casting curious looks in the gloom of the interior.

Fenris made his way to the back of the clinic, to the partitioned room that Anders used as his personal quarters. He pushed the curtain aside and gasped- he couldn’t help it- at the sight that greeted his eyes.

Anders was hunched over a desk, scribbling furiously; his eyes were wild, rimmed with red, shadowed by dark circles. He was shaking and mumbling to himself, his voice alternating between the frantic, exhausted murmurs of Anders and the booming, demanding voice of Justice.

 Stacks of parchment littered every surface, and the acrid smell of urine filled the small space; Justice had probably not let Anders stop writing his manifesto even to relieve himself, so it was highly improbable the mage had eaten or slept at all during these past few days.

Fenris felt pity, incredible pity, seeing the blond healer like this. He felt anger and disgust at his own self too, because Anders had stood by him and Hawke at their very worse and helped them through- but they had just left him here, to suffer alone. Fenris recalled the day they had released him from his dark cell, Anders crying and sniffling and healing his wounds with incredible tenderness, mumbling “poor little fingers” over and over again. He still remembered him whispering, “I’ll fix them, Fenris, don’t worry. You’ll be good as new. I swear.” He still remembered how the mage had nearly killed himself to keep him alive on the way back to Kirkwall, fighting off the infection in his body with all he had. Maybe Anders hadn’t done it for him, maybe he had done it all for Hawke’s sake, but the truth of the matter was that Anders had saved his life.

He had saved Hawke and her babies, in effect gifting Fenris with a life. Being kept alive was nothing compared to that; what was the point of living with nothing to live _for_? And so, Fenris ached to see him like this now, the man that loved Hawke but had taken a back role in her life in order to see her happy. A man that had gladly surrendered all his dreams and desires so she could be with the man she loved, someone Anders himself despised. He didn’t deserve this; he didn’t deserve to be tormented like this. Justice –or Vengeance- had to be made to see: the spirit was destroying its host; it was ruining all that Anders was.

“Anders,” he softly called to the man, then approached cautiously, taking one of the pages in his hand and casting a brief look over the untidily scribbled words. “Anders. This has to stop. Anders, can you hear me?”

He got no reply, no acknowledgement- the healer didn’t even seem to recognize him. Blue flashes were lighting up the mage’s skin, and his hand kept scribbling, the booming voice of Justice dictating.

“Justice,” Fenris raised his voice, addressing the being inside Anders that was clearly in control. “Spirit, hear me. This has to stop.”

The mage’s eyes blazed blue but his hand never stopped. Justice raised Anders’ head, and a cold chill went through the elf’s body at the demented look he was given.

“There can be no rest. There can be no compromise,” the eerie voice of the Fade spirit boomed. “Enough time has been lost.”

“Anders’ body is human, with mortal needs; you are killing him,” Fenris tried to reason with the spirit. “I will not let you do this. Release him, now!”

The mage rose to his feet, blue light seeping out of his skin, black smoke billowing around him. “Release him, you say? Anders and I are one!”

 Fenris drew his sword, a grim look painted on his face. “Do not test me, demon. I will strike you down if it means Anders will finally be free of you, make no mistake.”

“I AM NOT A DEMON!”

“You could have fooled me,” another voice sounded behind Fenris, and the elven warrior was relieved to realise it was Varric; the familiar sound of Bianca’s mechanism being cocked behind him followed, reassuring the elf further. Maker, if he was going to fight Anders- no, not Anders, Justice- then it was good he would at least have a witness to tell Hawke what had happened, that the spirit had attacked him first.

“Now, Justice, or Vengeance, or whatever the fuck your name is,” Varric mumbled, “lay off for a while, and let us take care of Anders. He’s a _human_ , you otherworldly dolt, and he needs to rest before he conks out and you need another host.”

Fenris braced himself for an attack as the creature in front of him fell to a battle stance, then heaved a huge sigh of relief as the blue light in Anders’ eyes faded and the mage cried out a desperate “NO!” before collapsing to his knees, and then to the ground.

He exchanged a look with Varric, then they sheathed their weapons and went outside to call for help carrying the mage. 

* * *

When Anders came to, he was clean, dressed in sweet-smelling clothes and resting in a soft bed. He felt like himself for the first time in the longest time, although there were parts of his memories that were fogged; that scared him. It was after Justice would come out that he didn’t remember what had happened , and he panicked at the thought of what he might have done while under the spirit’s total control. Andraste’s knickerweasels, he hoped he hadn’t hurt anyone!

His stomach growled, and he turned on his side with a weary little sigh. How long had it been since he’d eaten? How long had it been since he’d even drank anything? He felt parched, and the pangs of hunger in his gut were like nails being driven through him.

The door opened, and Hawke walked in. Carrying a tray of food that made his mouth salivate, she was a sight for sore eyes. She cast him a worried look before settling the tray down, then ran a trembling hand through his hair. “Anders...” she tried to smile at him. “Are you okay now? Is he gone?”

Anders sighed again, feeling the spirit start to stir. Thoughts and jumbled images began forming; he didn’t know which of them were his and which of them belonged to the spirit anymore, and that scared him right down to his soul. In the past, he had always been able to reason with the voice in his head, to turn down plans and designs that seemed too extreme. But now, still reeling from his recent ordeal, he could not find the will to do it anymore, nor the strength. He closed his eyes, listening to the voice that whispered that he had to reassure Hawke that he was okay; he would need her assistance soon, and she could not suspect their plan. It was imperative that she did not. There could be no hesitation now, the time for half-measures was done. Justice for the mages, freedom from the accursed templar Order. The cause was righteous, the battle should be taken straight to the root of the plight of the mages; the foul templars had to be made to submit to Justice!

Anders swallowed hard, then for the first time, outwardly, willingly lied to Hawke.

“I’m fine,” he said. “Justice is silent. He has relented, for now.”

Hawke didn’t like the sound of those two last words, but decided not to press the matter, and instead sat by his side, preparing to feed him the soup his rumbling stomach needed to settle down.

* * *

Fenris turned his head from his position on the floor, where two babies happily played around him on the plush carpet, attempting to crawl with adorably feeble efforts, like little frogs that flailed the legs and arms around, cooing and babbling to each other. Hawke smiled at the sight, then her smile fell and she rubbed a hand against her forehead for a few moments before she approached him and sat heavily down on the floor.

Fenris watched her in silence as she looked at her babies, her face pensive and thoughtful, her shoulders slumped. He didn’t ask; he didn’t have to. Anders had been on his mind as well, ever since Varric and he had carried the mage to her estate.

“He says he’s fine,” Hawke said, her voice subdued, as she stretched out a hand for Rose to clasp onto. The baby let out a little peal of laughter, and Hawke’s finger was soon pulled into a tiny rosebud mouth, the toothless gums rubbing against it.

“She’s teething,” Fenris observed, then smiled. His grin was forced, though, strained. “She has been biting down on anything she sees. Your mabari is hiding somewhere; she bit his ear earlier.”

“Ewww...” a voice commented from the door as Varric came in and settled on the floor next to them. Immediately, Lily raised her chubby little hands to him, and with an ease the dwarf wouldn’t have previously believed of himself, he picked her up and settled her on his lap. The baby went for his chest hair straight away, yanking hard, and Varric winced. “Your babies have the weirdest toys.”

He then looked down to the baby on his lap, and smiled broadly. “Lily...that hurts, darling,” he said, gently trying to unfurl the little fist from around the curls on his chest. “Lay off the chest hair, and Unca Varric will get you a big cuddly teddy bear; you can yank his hair out all you damn well please.”

Lily just yanked harder, and Varric went cross-eyed from the pain. “Oh, ouch, ouch, you hair-yanker, you. Shit, that left a bald spot.”

“Language, Varric,” Fenris chided absentmindedly, then sighed as the look of frustration and desperation deepened in Hawke’s eyes. Maker, but he hated his Hawke looking like this, forlorn and troubled.

Hawke smiled at Varric’s antics, but her eyes were sad. She exchanged a look with Fenris, and without speaking the elf clasped her hand in his, and squeezed tight, telling her what he somehow couldn’t with words. _It will be okay_ , the gesture said. _We’ll get through this_.

Maybe the reason he hadn’t said it out loud was that he himself wasn’t so sure, and he hated lying to Hawke.

As if they had a secret agreement, none of the adults spoke of what was on all their minds –Anders and Justice- but instead just sat there, looking at the playing babies, letting their sweet scent and babbling little coos soothe their souls.

* * *

To Hawke’s everlasting surprise, Meredith called for her again the next day, and though she agonized about leaving Anders all alone, in the end, it couldn’t be helped. She was curious to see what was behind the absurdly polite, almost saccharine note Meredith had sent her, anyway, so she made anther appearance at the Gallows, all her party in tow. Cullen was once more waiting for her at the gate –without the Orlesian escort this time- and they chatted on their way to Meredith’s office, Cullen asking her about Anders’ condition and apologizing profusely for not being able to either protect the mage, or send word to her.

She was already royally pissed by the time she crossed the threshold of the Knight Commander’s office, her talk with Cullen reminding her all too vividly of what Meredith had done, so she had no patience for the polite small talk Meredith attempted, clearly buttering her up in a vain effort to get her on her side.

“What do you want, Meredith?” she spat through clenched teeth. “Whatever it is, you won't find it on my ass, so stop kissing it.”

Meredith’s eyes gleamed with anger, but she refrained from answering in the same hostile tone. “There has been an incident in the Gallows,” she said, fury in her eyes. “Several phylacteries were destroyed, and some of the mages escaped. I need your help capturing the last three that we were not able to retrieve.”

“An ‘incident’?” Hawke crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Let me guess...a maid knocked over a shelf while dusting?”

Meredith’s eyes flashed again, and her gaze moved to Cullen who was standing behind Hawke. “No. Apparently, some of my own templars orchestrated the escape, presumably moved by pity for the mages. They have abandoned their duties and their oaths, and endangered their charges and the entire city while doing so. They have been dealt with, of course.”

“Of course,” Cullen muttered behind Hawke, low enough that the Knight Commander didn’t hear him. “Poor souls.”

“Why is it that you’re asking for _my_ help, Meredith?” Hawke narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “Are you really that naïve that you would think I would be willing to help you, after all you have done?”

Meredith went on as if she hadn’t heard her. “Fortunately, most of the fugitives ran back to their families, and were easily located and didn’t offer any resistance. But these last three fugitives....are proving more difficult. These three are in all probability blood mages, Champion, and loose in a city that is your duty to protect. Do as you please. But any deaths they cause will be on your hands.”

Hawke reeled at the thought, the sense of responsibility gnawing at her, as well as the memory of how she had lost her mother at the hands of one such mage, loose in the city, wreaking havoc and death on innocents. She tightened her lips. Meredith could go hang, but blood mages running amok in her city was not an idea she could easily live with.

“I still do not see why it is _my_ business to apprehend them,” she insisted, infuriated and taking out her frustration on Meredith, whom she had wanted to punch to a bloody pulp the minute she had seen her. “It is the templars’ duty, not mine.”

“I have asked you to track these fugitives so you might see for yourself what we templars deal with every day. If you still think they are worth our mercy, talk to me then,” Meredith challenged her. “You will see that sometimes extreme measures must be taken; imprisonment and death are often the only mercy we can offer.”

Hawke’s eyes fogged with a wave of fury that made her see red. “Why, you damned arrogant bitch!” she hissed. “You dare talk to me of mercy after what you did to Anders?”

A hand clasped on her shoulder, and Fenris started talking urgently in her ear, in a whisper that was both soothing and rational. “Hawke. Do not give her the pleasure of seeing you lose your temper,” he murmured in her ear. “Do not let her rile you.”

With an effort that took all her strength, Hawke managed to fight off the rage that was swarming her, concentrating on Fenris silky, low baritone; she let his voice and his words smooth over her nerves, let them soothe her soul. Taking a few deep breaths, she opened her eyes to see Meredith with her hand over her shoulder, ready on the hilt of that massive, sinister-looking sword that was strapped on her back, her eyes hard and determined and realised that this time, the Knight Commander was determined not to back down. If push came to shove, this time Meredith would salvage her wounded ego by either killing Hawke or falling dead herself.

She gritted her teeth; she didn't want to kill Meredith. Well, she _did_ , but she couldn’t. The precarious balance of power that she and Orsino had established would be severely threatened. She entertained the idea of just slitting the woman’s throat, and forcing Elthina to make Cullen the new Knight Commander, but then the whole Templar Order would be on her heels. She couldn’t do that. She had babies now, a family. The days when she would have said ‘screw this,’ and just done when her bloodthirsty soul commanded, were over, once and for good. She wouldn’t be able to run with her babies – she would, rather,-but she didn't want to. She shouldn’t _have_ to.

“What will it be, Champion?” Meredith tossed, still with her hand grasping the hilt of her sword.

“I will help you,” Hawke grumbled. “But mark my words, Meredith: one of these days...one of these days you will push me a little too far, and be advised...I don’t show mercy easily, either.”

Meredith nodded, then gave her assistant, a stunningly beautiful tranquil mage, instructions to give them all the information they needed to apprehend the three fugitives.

Hawke ignored the Knight Commander pointedly, but a pair of moss-green eyes followed the blonde woman as she walked out the room, narrowed in threat and intense dislike. She turned her head to look at Fenris contemptuously, and the white-haired elf let his markings flash, sending a menacing but discreet message:

Back off. Or die.

* * *

_We tracked down the three mages and damn it, but I was confused. One of them was a fop of a man, who just wanted to get some piece of ass and had foolishly spread around the rumour that he was a blood mage to make himself look more dangerous. Hawke sent him back to the circle, minus his virginity which a serving girl relieved him of. I know, I know...we should have killed him, it would have done the world a service; fools like him should be drowned in a bucket at birth, so as not to spoil the breed._

_The second was a woman who had been helping Fereldan orphans, acting as their mother, taking care of them. When she had been arrested and put in the Circle she had almost gone mad from worry for her kids, and once she had escaped she turned to a demon in her effort to protect them, to not let herself be separated from her starving charges again. That one we killed, and it left a bitter taste in my mouth._

_The third, though...that was creepy-ass crazy. An elf who killed his wife before we got the chance to stop him, and was one of the most chilling, crazy-eyed bastards we had ever met. Killed him too, and this time, good riddance._

_Three mages: one almost turned to blood magic out of stupidity, the other did because of desperation, and the third because of something in his brain that had gone seriously wrong. It seemed to be the pattern: stupidity, despair, madness. Whatever the case, it was driven home quite rudely that, indeed, mages were dangerous. For the first time after months, Fenris and Hawke got into a debate about magic that escalated into an all-out fight. They both stormed off in different directions after it, fuming, yelling insults._

_Later that night though, they made up. I think the whole of Hightown heard them making up. I’m surprised the guards didn't come knock on her door to see what the commotion was about._

_With all that, the quest, the fight, the noisy, window-rattling making up, nobody noticed Anders when he snuck out that night, his eyes glowing an eerie blue._

_I heard rumours, afterwards, of people claiming that a mysterious man fitting his description had been seen skulking around the Chantry. At the time, I was clueless...but even if someone_ had _told me, I would have scoffed and dismissed it as coincidence._

_What could Anders want in the Chantry, anyway, right?_

 

 

 


	48. Chapter 48

A knock sounded on the heavy door of the Amell mansion, muffled and distant, and a white-haired head jerked upwards from a soft, downy pillow. Fenris was alert in mere seconds, his senses attuned to the strange noise, like only those of a man too accustomed to being hunted could ever be.

“Hawke,” he murmured in the dark, rising on his feet silently, “there is someone banging on the door, ” he added, grabbing his sword in the dark, without even having to check for its location.

“You must be hearing things,” she mumbled, her head  still buried in the pillow. “Nobody knocks at this hour. Not if they know what’s good for them.”

Then the banging on the door started again, and Hawke’s head rose as well, her feline eyes glinting in the darkness. There were dark circles under her eyes, and she looked pale and exhausted. Their babies had given them hell all week, crying, fussing and hardly sleeping, miserable with their first teeth. Hawke had barely slept, and Fenris had been so worried that this would trigger a relapse into the depression that had plagued her when the babies were born; he wouldn’t have judged her harshly, though. There was nothing like two teething babies to make any parent-even the most devoted- think of tossing the wailing children out of the window, once or twice.

“If Rose and Lily wake up,” she hissed, “whomever is at the door is dead.”

Fenris’ lip rose on one corner; he grabbed a robe and threw it over the linen pair of trousers he wore to sleep, then made his way to the door. Bodahn seemed to have awoken too, and Fenris could hear the dwarf grumbling about ungodly hours and rude visitors as he hurried to the entrance.

Fenris stood at the top of the staircase, and listened as a voice spoke a few urgent words to the dwarf, then passed through. Donnic was suddenly standing in the entry hall, dressed in his nightclothes, his hair dishevelled from sleep.

“Fenris,” he cried out, fear and anxiety written all over his face. “I need Hawke. Maker, I think...Aveline...I think she lost the baby.”

Fenris tensed, and behind him a startled Hawke gasped. “What happened?”

“She felt some cramping, and there was blood...so much blood,” Donnic paled even more. “Please. I couldn’t think of anyone else.”

Hawke drew herself together with a deep intake of air. “Fenris, go fetch Anders,” she grabbed onto his forearm. “Take the tunnels and be careful. Bodahn, watch the babies.” She threw a robe over her nightdress as she came down the stairs, then grabbed Donnic’s hand and dragged him behind her. “Let’s go. You shouldn’t have left her alone.”

When they reached the Guard Captain’s modest home, situated near the training grounds of the Keep, it was too late to save Aveline’s baby; Hawke realised that from the amount of blood on the mattress. Her friend was crying in her pillow, and Hawke’s heart broke for her and her husband, who could do nothing but hold her and promise her that it would all be alright. They waited patiently for Fenris to fetch Anders, worried that the heavy loss of blood could be dangerous for Aveline’s life, but when Fenris arrived, he was alone.

Anders was nowhere to be found, but in the worry over Aveline, the sorrow and heartbreak of this night, the urgency to find another healer, none of them paid that little critical detail much heed.

It was only the next day that Hawke thought about it, when Anders finally arrived, too late to help with anything, and offered as an excuse that he had been helping with a birth deep into the night. But the way he didn’t really look at any of them in the eyes told Hawke he was lying, and a horrible feeling of foreboding chilled her heart. He watched the mage with a critical eye as he was examining Aveline, noticing little hints of uncharacteristic behaviour; he seemed a little distant, his eyes unfocused and introspective. Hawke had been relieved when he’d told her that Justice was again under his control- now, however, she was beginning to doubt that. She asked him about the birth he had supposedly been helping with, and he gave her vague details and shifted suspiciously while doing so, his gaze avoiding hers.

 _Oh,  Anders,_ she thought, fear –for him, for all of them- getting a good grip on her insides and starting to squeeze. _What are you hiding?_

 

* * *

 

A  few days later, after trying in vain to have Anders come over for a ‘chat’, which he always found excuses to avoid, she was surprised to see him waiting for her in her own living room. He had a fussing baby in his arms, and talking to her in a low voice.

Hawke realised how bad the situation with Anders had gotten just then, because her spine tingled with dread at the sight of her baby in the arms of man she would once have trusted her life with- a man she _had_ trusted her life with on more than one occasions. But right now, the sight of him holding Lily drove a dagger of alarm and anxiety in her gut; she was overwhelmed by this instinctive urge to grab her baby away from him.

She shoved the urge away, rationalising her fear with thoughts of being ridiculous, that she was so tired she was seeing danger were there was none. Anders would never hurt her daughters; he had done everything in his power to keep them safe, to make sure they would be born, to deliver them safely. He would never jeopardise them; he loved them like he would his own children. But still, the uneasiness inside her remained, and unable to fight it, she approached him and stretched her hands out for her daughter. Anders gave her a thoughtful look before complying and giving her the child; she hoped she had been able to mask her anxiety, as well as the relief that flooded her soul as soon as Lily was back in her arms.

“I... I need your help, Hawke,” Anders blurted out, just as she was busy racking her brain for some way to start this conversation. She narrowed her eyes, then motioned for him to continue.

“What I did with Justice...it was wrong, I can see it now. There might be a way to undo it. Without killing either of us, that is.”

Hawke drew in a startled breath. She had  not been expecting that.

“What do you mean?”

“There might be a way to separate Justice and me,” Anders started pacing in front of the fireplace. “It is risky, there are no assurances it will work but...” He turned and looked at her, his amber eyes burning. “I need to do this, Hawke. I can’t go on like this, with Justice inside my head.”

Hawke crossed the space to the little playpen they had set up in the living room for the babies, set her daughter down and then returned to Anders, only to surprise him by stepping close to him and wrapping her arms around him. “Is there a chance this could cost you your life? I don’t want to lose you, Anders.”

His hands rested on her shoulders for a while, before he drew away. “You will anyway. I mean...if this doesn’t work, you’ll lose me to Justice. He gets stronger every day...I have lapses, Hawke, instances where I come to and can’t remember where I’ve been and what I’ve done. After...the templars...anyway-it’s gotten worse.”

“Anders...”

“Don’t pity me, for heaven’s sake!” Anders turned away, his fists clenched. “Just...don’t. Help me get the ingredients to this potion. That’s all I ask.”

Hawke heart bled at the sight of his shame, of his desperation. He was a strong man, who had to come to her and admitted that everything he had done and defended the past six years had been a mistake, the influence of a spirit that had once been benevolent, but had since turned into a despot; and it had been Anders’ fault, which only added to his guilt. The anger inside him had corrupted Justice into Vengeance, and now the spirit was corrupting Anders’ good intentions. It was a vicious circle, and there seemed to be no escape...but this potion...what was it exactly? How did it work? If there was a potion that could cure possession, why didn't anyone know of it?

 _I must be spending too much time with Fenris_ , she wryly thought to herself _. A mage tells me something and immediately I get guarded._

The truth, however, remained. While she wanted to help Anders, there was a little something inside her that warned her against it. Something in her gut, some small instinctive doubt, that made her question his words.

“There is a potion that can cure possession?” she asked, her eyebrows furrowing. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“I have been doing some research,” Anders’s eyes roamed the room shiftily. “I even broke into the Gallows library; the only place where you can find forbidden Tevinter manuscripts.” He smiled wryly. “The ancient Tevinters were the only ones who ever attempted to cure a possession with anything other than a beheading, it seems.”

She pondered his words for a while, wishing fervently that Fenris were here to offer her his opinion on all this mess; he was an expert on all things Tevinter, after all.

“So Hawke,” Anders pressed her. “What will it be? Will you help me?”

Hawke drew a deep breath and pushed her doubts and misgivings away, determined to ignore that voice in her head –the one that sounded suspiciously like Fenris’- and help her friend with whatever he needed.

“I’ll help you, Anders.”

* * *

Fenris was curiously optimistic about the situation with Anders when Hawke explained it to him after he had returned. He listened to Hawke reciting her dialogue with Anders while carefully putting away his shopping: new grinding stones for his sword, oil for Hawke’s armour, booties and wooden toys for the girls.

His lips thinned once or twice during her retelling, but other than that, he listened with his usual stoic concentration, not once interrupting her. When she finished, she looked at him anxiously, then bit her lip.

“Well?” she asked. “What do you think?”

“I think it is safe to presume that none but the Tevinter magisters would have more  information on possession by demons and spirits,” he rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “If there is the slightest chance Anders can be rid of Justice, I wholeheartedly approve.”

She started pacing in front of the fireplace, still anxious for some reason that she couldn’t pinpoint.

“There is something else troubling you,” Fenris stated, taking in the tensed way she was carrying herself, and the way she kept worrying her lip between her teeth.

She sighed. “I have no idea what it is...I have a bad feeling about all of it. I think we need to keep a careful eye on Anders in the following days.”

“We always need to keep an eye on him- he _is_ a mage. Even the strongest among them are never free from temptation.”

Hawke rolled her eyes. “Yes, yes, I know. You will never fully trust a mage. Sometimes I wonder,” she cast a furtive look at him, “what you would have done if I were a mage. You’d probably never have come within two feet of me.”

Fenris approached her from behind, and wrapped his arms around her waist. His voice –rich like the most sinful chocolate- made goose flesh appear all over her skin when he leaned in and whispered, “I doubt whether I could have resisted you, Hawke, even then.”

She turned her head, a small smile on her face, and their lips met in a sweet, chaste kiss, one that soothed and comforted. But there still was a small twinge of worry inside Hawke, and she put one finger against his mouth, keeping him from deepening the kiss.

“What if the girls turn out to be mages?” she voiced a question that had been a hidden source of worry ever since they had reconciled. “What will you do then?”

Fenris’ mouth curled on one corner with a wry smile. “After I roll my eyes at the Maker for the irony? I will protect them and shelter them, and be vigilant. If I have to save them from themselves, I will, Hawke.”

She nodded, then her smile lit up her face. “My father had said almost the exact same thing when Bethany showed signs of magic.”

“He was a wise man.”

“Singing your own praises?” she was the one who kissed him this time, turning in his arms to press herself against him. With a groan, Fenris tightened his hold on her and claimed her on a kiss that made her lose her breath; his tongue slipped into her mouth, hot, insistent, demanding. She responded with equal fervour, slipping her hands into his white hair and caressing his ears while his mouth plundered hers; she was a feisty woman underneath the shyness and the hesitancy her experiences had caused her, and now that she felt secure in her sensuality she had no qualms letting it show.

Fenris growled into the kiss, then started walking her backwards, until she had reached the bed and the back of her knees bumped into the wood. A little shove and she was sprawled onto the mattress, looking at him through lust-fogged eyes, licking her lips at the sight of her handsome elf slowly unbuttoning the clasps of his armour. Bronze, exotic skin revealed itself to her eyes inch by inch, silvery lines adorning it, gleaming as his muscles moved. She laid back, smiled, licked her lips again and held out her arms to him.

He was smiling as he crawled all over her, like a sinfully lithe jungle cat; smiling as he kissed every inch on her body, smiling as he joined himself to her. Her breathless cries and the trembling of her body under his touch, the way she responded to him-honestly, wholeheartedly, nothing held back- made the smile widen. The way she whispered his name, the way he came apart underneath him- like every time they came together, it was perfect, a piece of heaven. Each time was better than the last and less good than the next- each time he wanted her more, each time she gave a little more of herself to him.

And that night...he gave her some of himself as well.

* * *

 

_Little Leto started his existence that night, a spark of life nurtured by love, a child conceived with smiles. Sunshine, the name meant in Tevere, and Leto was just that: Sunshine. A bright summer day when it feels like a sin to do anything but bask in the sun. A summer day when everything in the world seems to be set right, when you feel that nothing could go wrong, when the air itself is redolent with life, hope and love._

_Some say the name means ‘always happy’ too, and Leto was just that, a happy, well-adjusted little ray of sunshine; sombre and much too clever and wise for his years, but boy the kid could pull pranks with the best of them too, namely me. My heart ached to see him; had Fenris been like that as well as a little boy? Serious and well behaved, but with that spark of mischievousness in his green eyes that begged to be set loose and wreck havoc- and yes, it was almost always set loose under my influence._

_Another meaning for the name is ‘forgotten’. Well. Hello, irony._

_Ah, yes. That night, when Leto was conceived. Hawke insisted it was on that night they had made up after a fight, but Fenris always smiled and said it was on that night, when they had laid entwined long into the morning, making sweet love, smiling at each other._

_It was the same night that Anders spent crying in his little hovel, appalled at himself for having lied to Hawke, for having deceived her. Justice kept raving in his head, insisting that it had been necessary, and people that went by drew back in fear at the blue flashes that lit the hovel from within._

_Sometimes I wonder...how can one night be the start of a miracle and of so much pain at the same time?_

_I was there the next days when we went down in the sewers for one of the reagents for the potion, joking with Anders about drinking a potion that contained crystals that formed in shit and piss- for the sake of that’s holy- and asking him if living with Justice wasn’t preferable to that. I distinctly remember telling him “I’d live with Justice, his family and all his cousins twice removed, if it meant NOT drinking that.”_

_Fool that I was._

_I did notice he was acting a little weird. I noticed Hawke noticed, too. But...beat me over with a stick, didn't say anything. I didn't believe in sticking my nose in businesses that weren’t mine, back then, and yeah, I know, I should have said something. If I had said something to Hawke, maybe she wouldn’t have brushed off that feeling of wrongness she had been getting._

_I sometimes wonder...what if I had spoken? What if I had told Hawke that Anders seemed to be acting strangely? What if I hadn't dismissed the little nagging voice inside me that insisted that something was wrong? Would Hawke have pressed Anders_ _more_ _for some answers ? Would we have been able to stop him?_

_Hmph. What if. One of the cruellest little phrases ever invented, right?_

_The search for the ingredients took us to Sundermount next, were we had to fight a dragon, damn it, and lo and behold, soon Anders had whatever he needed to separate himself from Justice. Little did we know that there was no separating those two, not anymore. There might have been a time when –if that potion really existed- Anders would have happily drank it, heavenly aroma of stale piss and all. There was a time when Anders had still been Anders, when he hadn't given in to the voice in his head, when he hadn't surrendered._

_I wonder...what if Meredith had known that kidnapping Anders would lead to the destruction it did...would she still have done it?_

_Probably. She was bat-shit crazy enough to._

_Like I said...what if._

 

 


	49. Chapter 49

Varric went by the Hightown square, dressed in his finest, and trying to avoid the multitude of people, vendors and Guild members alike, that tried to hold him for a chat or approached him with a request. He dismissed most of them with an easy, carefree gesture and a teasing remark, scowled a little to this and that Guild member that implored him to help out with some trivial affair of theirs, and quickly made his way to the Amell mansion.

This was not the day for such things; it was the presentation day for the Hawke brood, where they would be officially presented to the Maker, and Varric was a guest of honour, being the godfather for both babies.

Of course, Grand Cleric Elthina had bulked a bit at a dwarf – who wasn’t even officially an Adrastian- being the godfather of the two children, but Hawke had insisted, and in the end, the soft-spoken woman had backed down, murmuring that the children had an unusual family already: a deceased sire that was loyalty, a mother that was nobility, and a daddy that was an escaped former slave. They had an apostate for an uncle, a pirate whore and a Dalish elf mage for aunts, and the captain of the City Guard as a godmother.

Clearly, as Elthina put it, they were affiliated with every walk of life, and dwarves could not be excluded from that.

Besides, Elthina had a lot more reasons to grouse at Hawke than who was going to be godfather to her babies. During the past few days, Hawke had ruthlessly put her plans in motion, renouncing the Starkhaven throne on behalf of her children and suggesting –none too gently- to the Starkhaven assembly of nobles, that Vincent Vael Leod should be Prince. According to Varric’s sources, her formal letter had fallen like a bomb in the Assembly. It had been worded very diplomatically, but the words Hawke had carefully chosen carried a distinct and threatening message: either the candidate of her choosing would become Prince of Starkhaven, or she would accept the title of Princess for her firstborn daughter, with her as Regent until the child reached adulthood. And then Starkhaven would be under Kirkwall’s control.

Vincent Vael Leod had been declared Prince almost unanimously. Elthina was caught by surprise; she had actually believed that one of Sebastian’s daughters would be his heir and successor, and had a long meeting with Hawke, where she had expressed her displeasure not so much with who had ultimately become the ruler of Starkhaven but about the fact that Hawke had lied to her.

And that gave Hawke the perfect opportunity to take the Grant Cleric to task about that potion Sebastian had been taking all his life, and  exactly why the Chantry kept that little piece of information from Hawke- because, as Hawke said, if she’d known he was ill, she might have done something to help him before he turned into a total douche bag. Elthina’s shocked and disbelieving eyes could only mean two things: she either had not known, or she was a damned good actress.

Once all that had been taken care of, Hawke decided it was time for some celebration and although the dedication to the Maker was usually done much sooner, she decided she would present her children and formally make them Andrastians; she still believed, although her faith in the Chantry had been shaken, and it was a way to appease Elthina as well.

Varric smiled when he walked through the door of the Amell mansion to see the group that was awaiting for them there. Isabela was actually dressed, looking very uncomfortable in a long dress, but both Hawke and Fenris were dressed in their armours, although Hawke’s had been polished to perfection. Aveline was there too, in her formal Guard Captain suit of armour, but Donnic by her side was dressed in civilian clothes; Varric nearly chuckled. He looked so uncomfortable, poor sod. Varric was glad to see that Guard Captain in her armour though; during the past few weeks, after her miscarriage, she had been brittle and sad, and Varric had been saddened to see her in her robe when he visited her, wandering aimlessly around her house. Aveline didn’t match with that image, the helpless woman with sadness in her eyes- Aveline was determination, and calm assurance. He watched her for a while, while she cooed to Rose, and smiled; she’d be alright. She was a strong woman, and she had Donnic. That man was a rock; and she had finally learnt how to lean on him in her hour of need.

He looked around the room, spotting Merrill looking a little sad in the corner, a pout on her cute face. She’d be thrilled to go, but in the end she would not  be attending the service, as it was risky with all these templars around. Anders had bowed out as well, exactly for the same reason.

In fact, Varric noticed, Anders wasn’t even there.

He exchanged a look with Hawke and she shrugged, then tried in vain to calm down a fussy baby. Lily was none too pleased with the formal presenting gown she had been dressed in- she kept trying to dislodge the little frilly bonnet on her head, and the ribbon was cutting into her chin. She wailed loudly, and Fenris exchanged a much more docile Rose with the little hellion, humming to Lily in his molten caramel voice, trying to calm her down.

Fenris exchanged one more look with Hawke. “I can come, if it pleases you,” he said, but it was clear from his posture that it wasn’t a offer he was making with ease.

“We’ve been through this before, Fenris,” Hawke caressed the side of his face. “I would love to have you there, you ARE the babies’ father for me, there is no question about it. But if you’re feeling uneasy, I don’t mind. You can stay here.”

Varric shook his head. They had been having this argument all week; Hawke was saddened that Fenris didn't want to appear at the babies’ presentation along side with her, but the elf dreaded being under such scrutiny- it was very likely that many nobles would show up, to be present  at the service. He hated being at the centre of attention, he detested the hushed murmurs and the comments these people would make about Hawke, that she had taken an elf as a lover. Hawke had protested that the whole of Hightown knew already, and that by hiding their relationship they were only reinforcing the feeling that what they had was wrong, somehow.

“I appreciate it, Hawke,” Fenris said. “I would feel uncomfortable, that is true.”

Varric patted the elf on the back. “Don’t worry, elf. You can come if you want to - they’ll be too busy ogling the world’s most handsome godfather to pay attention to you.”

Fenris rolled his eyes. “Whose idea was it to have Varric as a godfather, again?” he asked Hawke, grumbling.

“It was either Varric or Anders, so deal with it,” she smiled, her feline eyes twinkling,  then blew him a kiss as she left the house, one baby in Aveline’s arms and the other in Varric’s.

 Fenris looked around him, at the now empty room- empty besides him and Merrill.

“We could play a game to pass the time,” she started blabbering. “We used to play a lot of games in the camp, like spot the halla...oh, we can’t play that, we need halla to play it, and we don’t have halla around here. Oh I know! We can play charades!”

Fenris slapped his hand against his face, and Merrill’s good spirits deflated. “Oh, sorry....you don’t look like the game playing type, anyway.”

“Diamondback or nothing.”

“I’ll fetch the cards.”

* * *

Hawke rocked in place, trying to keep her bored, agitated daughter from fidgeting. Varric nodded to her from the further down the aisle, then came back rushing to her, pushing past a couple of sisters.

“They are giving the last rites to some poor sod, then there is a wedding to perform, and then it’s us.”

“I thought our appointment was for eleven bells,” Aveline groused, rocking Lily on her shoulder. “The babies are getting restless.”

“Our original appointment was for yesterday,  let me remind you,” Hawke said, “but Lily had a slight fever and I requested to come today. The grand Cleric did warn me we might have to wait.”

Lily started wailing loudly, just as a sister went by, carrying one of those incense burners. Hawke felt the back of her throat and her eyes burning; she couldn’t blame her daughter for protesting. The place was stuffy, the small of incense and burning bee’s wax from the multitude of candles making the air hard to breathe. She tried in vain to calm her daughter down, getting more and more frustrated. Good-natured Rose started wailing next and Hawke had enough.

“Let’s go wait out in the square,” she said, trying to hush Lily, that was squirming wildly in her arms, and in danger of seriously hurting herself on one of Hawke’s pauldrons. “It’s too stuffy in here for the babies.”

Just then, a horrible smell reached all their noses.

“Oh, tell me she didn’t,” Varric’s face scrounged up, then he lifted Lily up to sniff at her bottom. His eyes crossed with the stench, and he nearly gagged; he had changed the babies’ nappies many times, especially when Hawke was under that fit of depression after they were born, but the smell was something that he would never get used to. “Yep, she did, the little stinker.”

“Oh, dear,” Hawke looked at the line of people in front of them. “We don’t have time to go home.”

“My house is just around the corner,” Aveline said. “Let’s go get her clean, and we’ll be back just in time for the presentation service.”

Hawke nodded. “What else will go wrong today?” she asked, as the whole group  followed Aveline.

* * *

Fenris had long despaired of Merrill ever learning the rules of the game, and was just pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration at the twentieth time she asked the same question when they heard a deafening boom, a roar like a thousand bolts of lightning had just crashed together.

The floor shook under their feet as they both jumped up, then the whole house seemed to rock on its foundations. A  wave of heated air and a powerful shock wave of what seemed like an explosion of a nearby volcano rattled the walls and broke every single window.

Fenris dove under the table, dragging Merrill along with him, as broken glass crashed around all around them, and plates and pottery tumbled to the floor in a cacophony of noise. They emerged from under the table, looking around them with wide, fearful eyes; Fenris’ first thought was how in the Maker’s name they would manage to get out of the kitchen without stepping on the broken glass that littered the floor like glittering diamonds.

“What was that?” Merrill, asked, dusting herself, and then she slumped, covering her head with her arms as a heavy thud sounded from the roof; another followed, and then another one, as if rocks were raining from the sky. Fenris looked up, confusion on his face. Merrill slowly lowered her arms too, and also looked up.

“A dragon?” she hesitantly offered, and Fenris gave her a pointed look, which made her visibly shrivel up. “Sorry,” she mumbled. “But what can it be?”

Fenris looked around, then his eyes fell on the cards that had scattered on the table. He picked them up, then laid a couple of them on the floor in front of him, over the broken glass; they were hard, thick cardboard, and when he stepped gingerly on them, tiptoeing and carefully balancing on one foot, he found –to his relief- that they were thick enough to protect his bare foot. He quickly set a few more further away, and stepping carefully, he managed to make it to the door of the antechamber, where the breakage was less. He turned to look at Merrill, that was looking at the cards with hesitant eyes.

“I’m clumsy,” she mumbled. “I have the worst sense of balance ever, I remember one time that I wanted to...Oh, I’m blubbering. Don’t mind me.”

The acrid smell of smoke grew stronger, while now they could both hear panicky cries coming from the street. “Wait there, then,” Fenris said. “I’ll go upstairs to grab a pair of Hawke’s boots for you. Do you smell smoke too?”

She nodded, and then Fenris looked up the stairs again. “I’ll go check for a fire.”

When he came back to the kitchen, relieved that the house wasn’t burning up around them, he only found a couple of bloody footsteps leading from the kitchen door to the entrance of the mansion. Obviously, Merrill was indeed clumsy, and feeling irritated that she didn't wait for him to get her the shoes, he made his way to the front door as well.

The huge, ornate door flew inwards, and Merrill burst in, limping heavily. Her face was deathly pale, and her eyes were huge on her pretty face. Alarm bells went off inside Fenris at the look in her eyes, the sheer blind panic on her expression, the way her petite frame trembled.

“Fenris!” she gasped. “The Chantry! Someone blew up the Chantry! Oh, Creators! Hawke! The babies!”

He gave her a confused look, before her words –and their ramifications- slammed into his brain. He froze in shock, his breath lodged somewhere in his throat, his heart giving a violent jolt and then stopping for a few seconds. A gasp escaped him, and he became as white as a ghost; _Hawke. Marian. Oh, Maker, no_.

A surge of adrenaline rushed through his body as his brain sent the command to his limps to fight, run, do something. _His family_. _Dear Maker_. He pushed past Merrill, out in the street, where smoke filled the air and debris and black ash rained from the sky like  dark, perverted rainfall. He looked towards the direction of the Chantry, and all he saw was smoke, and fire, a black spot in the pristine Hightown city line.

The ground nearly disappeared from underneath his feet; he felt like a black pit of despair had just opened under his feet to swallow him up; Hawke was in there, his babies were in there, all  the people he had come to call his friends were in there. His dreams, his hopes, his life. A scream of rage, of the blackest despair escaped him, roaring to the  blackened sky, his whole body alighted and glowing a silvery blue.

Then, not even paying any attention to Merrill, he started running towards the Chantry, pushing past panicky people and jumping over debris and fallen masonry, with only one thought in his mind: revenge. He would find who had cost him everything he had to live for, and his vengeance would be a terrible thing to witness.

A few steps before he reached the Chantry courtyard, he paused, just for an instance, and a hard gleam entered his eyes; even in blind panic, even through blinding, breath-stealing pain, his brain had put two and two together, and had come up with the only logical culprit.

“Anders,” he growled, then started running again, murder in his eyes.

* * *

Hawke and Aveline had made short work of Lily’s nappy, then rushed back to the Chantry, only to come across the improbable sight of First enchanter Orsino and a group of his mages battling it out with Meredith and her templars, right there in the middle of the square.

“You had to ask,” Varric grumbled as they approached. “Well, this is what else could go wrong, I hope you’re happy.”

Hawke shot him a withering look, then handed her baby over to Donnic, approaching the shouting and quarrelling pair with caution.

“You cannot do this!” the First Enchanter was shouting. “You have no right!”

“I will search the Tower from top to bottom,” Meredith shouted back, “with or without your permission! You are harbouring blood mages, I know it!”

Orsino threw his arms in the air, totally frustrated. “And then what?” he asked. “When will it be enough for you? Your paranoia makes you see blood mages everywhere! I will not stand for this!”

Meredith adopted a sickening sweet, fake pitying tone of voice. “Trust me,” she said, “it breaks my heart that I have to do this, but mages cannot be trusted. There can be no lapse in vigilance. You must submit to my investigation, or I will consider you guilty of subversion.”

“Can you two get a room?” Hawke drawled sarcastically, as she approached them. “Honestly, people will talk.”

“Champion,” Meredith flinched. “Who invited you into this?”

“I called her here,” Orsino huffed, frustrated beyond belief. “She will make you see reason!”

“I hate to disappoint you both,” Hawke said, looking at Orsino with a questioning look, “but I came here on my own. Orsino, I never received any letter from you. It’s my babies’ Presentation Day today.”

Orsino turned on the Knight commander with an irate look on his aristocratic face. “You!” he pointed an accusing finger at Meredith. “You dared intercept my mail! This is the last straw, the grand Cleric will hear of this! She will settle this once and for all, I promise you!”

“You will not bother the Grand Cleric with this!” Meredith grasped his arm as he was going up the stairs, her templars stepping forward to help her, while the mages behind Orsino also moved forward menacingly.

“Oh, for the love of...” Hawke muttered. “Donnic,” he turned to the guardsman. “Please take the babies out of here, back to your house. We’ll be there once this mess is sorted out.”

"Certainly, Hawke," Donnic bowed his head to her, "it will be my pleasure." He picked one baby up, and assisted by Orana who was carrying the other one, he made his way back across the square, and to his and Aveline's modest house at the back of the Keep's courtyard.

Hawke then turned to the squabbling pair in front of her, ready to let her temper fly and give them both a piece of her mind, when she spotted a figure coming down the stairs. "Anders?" she asked, eyeing the blond apostate with mistrust, immediately taking in the new colour of his robes: it was black, and the colour alone was enough to send a shiver of trepidation down her spine.

"The Grand Cleric cannot help you," he said, addressing Orsino, and then he spotted Hawke. "Hawke...what are you doing here? What are you all doing here?" His eyes blew wide as saucers as he spotted Donnic and Orana taking the babies away. "Wh...why are the babies here?" he stuttered.

"It was their Presentation Day, today," she narrowed her eyes. "Anders, what have you done?"

Anders shook himself, obviously frozen with shock. "It was yesterday," he frantically said. "The Presentation was for yesterday!"

"We rescheduled... Anders! What have you done?" Hawke was eyeing him with the outmost suspicion, something screaming inside her that his terror at realising they were going to be in the Chantry this day had to do with something he had planned, something sinister.

Meredith spoke at that minute. "Mage, you try my patience! What did you mean that the Grand Cleric cannot help? Explain yourself, mage!"

A blue flash went off in Anders' eyes, and just like that his dread and panic evaporated, and Justice's unnatural voice boomed in the square, filling everyone with alarm and foreboding. "I will not stand by and watch you treat all mages like criminals," he said, then turned accusing, blue flashing eyes to Orsino, banging his staff on the ground to emphasise his words, "while those who would lead us bow to their templar jailors!"

"How dare you speak to me like this?" Orsino sputtered, clearly incensed.

"The Circle has failed us, Orsino," the boom of Justice's voice increased in volume, while Anders' skin cracked to let blue light shine through, and black smoke to billow around the mage. "The time has come to act. There can be no half measures."

Once again, Hawke felt a horrible feeling of forewarning go through her, making her stomach drop. The way Anders lowered his head for a moment, the way he avoided her eyes; it screamed that the mage had finally gave in to Justice's demands to take some kind of horrid action, and she felt chilled down to her soul. Oh, Maker. She should never have believed that Anders would be able to retain his control of the spirit; she had been stupid to believe him. She'd known there was something wrong- every instinct in her body had been screaming it at her for weeks. Why had she not listened?

"Anders..." she pleaded, "tell me. What has he made you do?"

"There can be no peace," Anders mumbled. His eyes made brief contact with hers, and she saw pain and regret in them, before Justice's flash of signature blue lit up in them again. "There is no turning back."

A rumble shook the ground under their feet at that moment, and they all looked frantically around. Up the stairs that led to the Chantry, a statue fell to the square and smashed into pieces.

"Earthquake!" Isabela shouted, but Hawke shook her head, then looked up. No, that was no earthquake. The rumble increased, and suddenly light sprang from inside the Chantry. She watched in shocked awe and terror as every boulder that comprised the high walls of the huge building came undone from the one next to it, pushed outwards by a pillar of pure, blinding light that sprang from the ground like a geyser of solid power. The walls pulsed outward, each piece of masonry separating from its neighbour like the pieces of a puzzle a careless child had tossed in the air, caught in the vortex of that amazing, blinding flash of light; they spun in the air for a brief second, then the column imploded on itself, drawing inward only to expand a second later. A deafening boom echoed, and stone and mortar flew everywhere, along with fire and destruction.

Hawke hid her eyes against the blinding flash, the cacophony of noise; she was nearly pushed to her knees by the rush of a shock wave that whooshed over them, bringing heat and the horrid smell of charred flesh, dust, and burning wood. When she opened them again, the Chantry was no more. A huge crater where fire danced was in its place, while half the Hightown estates all around were already starting to blaze, catching fire from the pieces of debris streaming down from the sky like some kind of sick, fiery rain.

"Maker have mercy!" Meredith cried, and her voice was what woke Hawke up. She turned huge, shocked eyes to the blond mage next to her, anger rising inside her to choke her.

"I would have been in there if Lily hadn't pooped," she said, and absurdly, the comment made everyone around her laugh, templars and mages alike, a brief, totally unreasonable pearl of laughter that sounded totally obscene under the circumstances.

Varric couldn't resist adding his two-bit. "The Champion of Kirkwall...saved by a dirty nappy. What a story _that_ will make!"

Hawke turned on him, pale and incensed. "Shut up! All of you shut up! People died in there! The grand Cleric is dead! I could have been dead!" She turned to Anders then, her eyes shooting flames. "I could have died, Anders. My babies could have been in there."

The mage visibly flinched at that, but he didn't get a chance to answer. Orsino stepped in, looking at Anders with an expression that was bewildered and shocked. "Why would you do such a thing?" he asked, genuinely baffled.

"I removed the chance for compromise," Anders voice boomed with Justice's otherworldly presence again, "because there is no compromise."

Meredith raised her head to the sky. "The Grand Cleric has been slain by magic, the Chantry destroyed." She lowered her head then and a determined glint shone in her eyes, along with –Hawke could have sworn it- some small spark of malicious pleasure. "As Knight Commander of Kirkwall I hereby evoke the Right of Annulment on the Kirkwall Circle. All the mages will be executed. Immediately."

"The Circle didn't even do this!" Orsino nearly wept. "You can't do this!"

"It has been done already!" Meredith answered.

"Champion! You can't let her do this!" Orsino turned to Hawke. "Stop her! Help us stop this madness!"

"And I call on you to keep order!" Meredith raged at Hawke. "You are the Champion of Kirkwall. Even you can see that this outrage cannot be tolerated! Justice must be served!"

Anders' body started flashing blue again at that, and Varric rolled his eyes. "That wasn't a name call, Justice," he muttered, and Hawke shot him a withering look again.

Anders- or was it Justice- turned to Hawke. "It can't be stopped now," he said, then small trace of the man he had been showed in his eyes, as they flooded with grief, and he looked at her with an apologetic look. "You have to choose."

Hawke was just about to answer him, when something knocked into her at high speed from behind; she gasped, the breath knocked out of her, and then groaned as two arms wrapped around her, squeezing so tightly that she thought that her armour would dent and her ribs would break. She struggled, until a raspy, breathless voice murmured in her ear.

"Maker. Hawke...you're alive. You're alive. You live."

She relaxed at the sound of that voice, then turned around in his tight embrace to look at Fenris. His eyes were wide with both fear and relief, and he was trembling, his whole body convulsing. She squirmed in his tight embrace, barely able to draw breath.

"I thought...I thought you were in there," he mumbled. "The babies? Tell me that..."

"Shhh..." she could see the blind panic, the fear that was still darkening his eyes. She realised with a jolt that he had heard the explosion and thought... "They're fine Fenris. We weren't in the Chantry."

She had never thought to see the day, but Fenris' legs actually gave out at this, and he fell to his knees, dragging her along with him. His head buried in her neck, not even paying any attention to the fact that the neck guard of her armour was digging into his cheek. Broken murmurs escaped her, some in Common, some in Tevene, curses, prayers, 'thank you's to all divine powers that ever existed. She held on to him, trying to comfort him.

Just as suddenly as he had embraced her, he shot to his feet, and moving with that otherworldly speed of his, he approached Anders. Before the mage had a chance to even move, the elf landed a punch that made the mage fly backwards and fall to his ass.

"Count yourself lucky, abomination," he growled, "that my woman and children still live. I would have removed your bones one by one, and woven your intestines into braids from the inside, had I really lost them this day."

Anders got to his feet, holding his jaw and leaning down to spit out a couple of broken teeth. "I had no idea they would be in the Chantry," he defended himself, shooting Fenris a guilt –ridden, apologetic look. But then Justice's voice roared again. "She is of little import. For the cause to be successful, for mages to be free, sacrifices must be made."

Fenris moved to punch him again, when Anders doubled over with an agonised groan, and a scream of "NO! Not Hawke!"

The elf stopped a few inches from the mage, and slowly lowered his arm. Varric put a hand on his elbow. "Elf," he said. "Either put him out of his misery, or stop provoking him. This dual personality thing is starting to unnerve me."

Meredith stepped in, making an impatient gesture. "What will it be, Champion?" she narrowed her eyes at Hawke. "Who will you stand for?"

"I hate you for dragging me into this," Hawke addressed Anders, who now seemed to have gotten the spirit inside him under control- at least temporarily.

Hawke exchanged a look with Fenris; long, searching. She could hear Orsino hiss at Anders at the background, telling him that he had doomed them all, and Anders replying that they had been doomed from the start, and that he'd rather have a quick death now, than one later. The resigned, defeated tone in the mage's voice registered –just barely- and she looked briefly away, to the fire raging behind them, where the Chantry once stood.

So many innocent lives lost, and so many others that would follow. Meredith was insisting that she could not retract the order even if she wanted to; the people would demand blood for the death of the Grand Cleric. Vaguely, she agreed, once again staring into the moss-green depths of Fenris' eyes. But was that Justice? The mages at the Circle were innocent too.

She ached at the thought that whatever choice she made, she would be dragging her family- Fenris, her babies- into a fight that would destroy the peace they had so recently found. Dreams of the old mansion filled with the laughter of children crashed and burn. She would have to make a run for it, whatever she chose- if she survived. She would deprive the man she loved of the only home he had known, and make him a hunted man again, just when he had discovered what it meant to be free.

She briefly contemplated joining the templars, but just the thought of fighting alongside Meredith was abhorrent to her. It would be easier- a few innocent mages would have to die, but she could keep her life, the life she had gone through hell to build here in Kirkwall. She wouldn't have to drag her babies away into an uncertain future, she wouldn't have to run with two young babies on her hip.

It was the thought of her two babies that made her mind up for her, though, in the end. Because, if her babies turned out to be mages, as there was every high percentage they would, this could be their future- dying at the hands of a monster like Meredith.

"It will not be easy," she turned to Orsino, "but I will defend you."

"Hawke," Fenris frowned. "This a hopeless cause. Why should we defend these mages, after all they've done?"

She gave him a pleading look.

"Elf," Varric rolled his eyes. "You're not actually suggesting we fight at _Meredith's_ side, are you?"

Fenris recoiled a little at that, then a hate-filled, distrustful look crossed his eyes as he regarded the Knight Commander. "That settles it," he said. "I will not abandon you Hawke," he nodded his head to her, and clearly saw her leave a relieved sigh. "I would fight alongside you even if you chose to do battle with the Maker himself."

She smiled at him, then straightened her shoulders and looked at Meredith with an expression of outmost contempt, which was clearly mirrored into the Knight Commander's eyes. "If you stand with the mages, Champion, you share their fate," the blond woman sneered.

"Oooh, I'm shaking in my boots," Hawke leered.

"Maker bless you Champion," Orsino thanked her, then turned to his mages. "Go! Return to the Circle before it's too late!"

"KILL THEM ALL!" Meredith raged and the templars all unsheathed their weapons.

"A nice pickle you have gotten us into," Isabela said as she unearthed two daggers under her skirt. "And me in a dress. How fucked up is this?"

Fenris and Hawke both pulled their sword and stood back to back. He turned to smile at her before engaging the first of the enemies that were rushing them, and she actually laughed, the adrenaline of battle once more flooding her, the exhilaration of fighting at the side of the man she loved; the cause didn't matter, the reason didn't count- only this, fighting by his side. The odds could be against them or in their favour- it didn't matter. As long as they were together, nothing could defeat them.

* * *

_Once the templars were killed, Orsino turned to Hawke and told her that he was leaving Anders for her to deal with._

_Ay, there's the rub. What to do with Anders?_

" _There's nothing you can say I haven't already said to myself," Anders said, sitting down on a broken crate, not looking at any of us. "I took a spirit into my soul and changed myself forever to achieve this. This is the justice all mages have awaited."_

_I saw Hawke's hand tighten around the hilt of her dagger, and at that moment I knew...Hawke wanted to kill him. She was incensed with him, murderously angry; it was only by a divine act of... poo, that she and her babies weren't blown to smithereens, after all. And now, his plan had pushed her once again into a desperate, hopeless battle, had shaken the life she had built down to its foundations. It would take a much more understanding, compassionate woman to forgive that; and Hawke...well, when Hawke was cornered like she had just been cornered... she was a vicious little bitch, make no mistake._

" _Why did you lie to me, Anders?" she hissed, that hand tightening even more on the hilt of her dagger. "Why didn't you tell me what Justice had been planning?"_

" _I wanted to tell you," Anders' voice was resigned. "But what if you tried to stop me? There was no telling what he might have felt compelled to do to you. Even worse, what if you wanted to help me? I couldn't let you get involved in this."_

" _How much more involved in this could she get?" I asked, and Fenris nodded, for once agreeing with me._

_She did ask for our opinions, to tell you the truth. Merrill, who had by now arrived, suggested he should be given a chance to right the wrong he had done, by fighting alongside us. Aveline said "Belief is no excuse. Sincerity just not justify...this."_

_As for me...I was sick of mages and templars, and I told her so. Isabela said we should just let him go, but the big surprise...was Fenris._

_He held that hand with the white-knuckled grip on the dagger back, and she looked at him with a look that was equally surprised and angry-  angrier than a mother dragon defending her young._

" _Don't do it, Hawke," he said, softly, his eyes pleading. "He wants to die, and in any other case, I would have told you to kill him and be done with it; but you will regret it the moment you do it, you know that."_

" _Whatever you do," Anders said, not even moving, his back stiff, "do it quick."_

" _Let him go; he will pay a hundred times over if he has to live with what he's done," Fenris said. "He wants to be a martyr, let him. Just don't be the one who makes him into one- you will never forgive yourself, my Hawke."_

_Her eyes found his, and they looked at each other for long, silent moments. He run a gauntleted hand down her face, careful not to nick her skin, and then looked at Anders' back. "He has saved my life, yours, and that of our babies. Let him go."_

_And Hawke turned to Anders and spat, "Get the fuck out of my sight, Anders, and never come back again, because then, I will kill you."_

_Anders left, surprised to be alive, and- if you don't mind my personal opinion- a little disappointed. I think Fenris was right, and he really did want to be a martyr, a name that people would remember, not a wanted criminal._

_Still, the point was moot, since we still had a battle to fight, and it was going to be a doozie. We had no idea if we would survive, and that little pragmatist in my head pointed out that without a healer, our chances had just decreased. Dramatically._

_We made it to the Gallows, minus Aveline. Hawke begged her to stay back, and if something happened to her and Fenris both- namely biting the dust- take care of Rose and Lily, and raise them with Donnic as if they were her own children._

_Yeah, Aveline crying. What a sight._

_Once we made it to the Gallows though, we came face to face with an old acquaintance of ours, an elf we had once rescued, yes, you guessed it, Zevran. Apparently, he was back in town, and that explained where Isabela had been disappearing to all these days- and nights. After laughing his ass off at the sight of Isabela in a dress, he offered us his services, which was a relief, because that elf could fight, and he could fight well._

_Ah, yes, nugshit. There were two pregnant women among our little group, not just one. Hawke and Isabela, although it was too soon for any of them to know, had been knocked up nearly at the same time, perhaps with two or three days difference among them. They certainly did give birth two days apart, and trust me, battling Meredith and all her templars? Piece of cake in comparison to BOTH Isabela and Hawke grumbling and throwing hormonal tantrums for nine months. And, hey, Isabela had twins. I teased her for months, that doing it like bunny rabbits led to spawning like them as well._

_An aside here: Hawke didn't kill Anders the next time she saw him; she was too tired, too exhausted, too fogged by pain; she had been in labour for more than thirty hours, and she –and Fenris- greeted him like a hero. After he saved her life once more, plus that of little Leto, she couldn't find it in her heart to hold a grudge. Anders had changed, as well: Fenris had been right. Tormented by guilt, hunted at every step, his grief was so acute, so all- encompassing that he just couldn't stay with us, he just couldn't be around people._

_He came back when Leto showed signs of magic, and for the longest time, he was a shadow of himself. But Leto brought him back; he eventually found joy and something to live for in that adorable little boy, a purpose, a family. He became unca Andy, and maybe...ah, nugshit. Anders would have made a great daddy, I firmly believe it. Even Justice, who appeared much less, absolutely adored the boy._

_How do I know? Well, the only times Justice appeared was when Leto was 'wronged'. Take Leto's toys and make the baby cry? Yep. Justice had a fit._

_But that was much later, and before we got to that, we all had to stay alive, we had to survive...dum, dum, dum. The Battle of the Gallows, my friends. And yes, this sorry tale is drawing to its close. You are probably saying you know what happened after this point, that you've heard the story a million times...you all probably think this here dwarf has no more surprises to offer you._

_Don't bet on it._

 

 

 


	50. Chapter 50

The future fractured into small, disjointed moments of chaotic sensation that night: the brine and coldness of the sea foam, as it hit against their faces on the small boat that ferried them to the Gallows. The way seagulls squawked overhead, as if mourning for the lives that would be lost. The tension and silence among them, as each of them contemplated their own mortality and made bargains and pleaded with their gods. Metal encased hands tightening for just an instance, as a pair of lovers looked in each other’s eyes- an unspoken promise, and a shared assurance:

_We’ll get through this._

It was no easy task, going up against the might of the Templar Order. They were all fully aware that this could be the one dragon they would not be able to slay. Even Varric  was out of jokes- he held on to Bianca and murmured slowly -lovingly- to her, as he would to an old mistress, making sure she would have his back this night. Merrill looked up to the slowly darkening sky, but for once she wasn’t playing connect-the-dots with the stars: she was solemn, taking account of her life so far, contemplating on the series of events that had led her to this here point in time. Isabela was hacking away at the hem of her dress, shortening it down to something that would not restrict her movements, but the playful twinkle in her eye was gone, and she exchanged a tight-lipped nod with Varric.

They were all less than well-equipped; they had gone to the Chantry for a celebration, not for a fight. Hawke and Fenris were in their armours, but the rest of the party...Hawke shook her head. They looked like children that had hastily been woken up in the middle of the night, as enemies stormed the gates. Someone and had thrust rusty swords in their hands and told them that they had to fight and now, wide-eyed and a little shocked, they were all struggling to comprehend what had happened that day.  The Chantry was gone. Elthina was dead. Anders was...not who they’d thought, not anymore. None of them would ever have thought to put the word ‘murderer’ after the name of their softly spoken, tender-hearted mage, despite his revolutionary agenda...but it was hard not to. How many people had died at the Chantry this day?

A vision passed through Hawke’s mind, as she looked around the tight, solemn faces of her companions: that couple that was waiting-dressed in their finest, with expectant smiles- for their wedding ceremony. The couple that had taken their taken their time slot, eager faced, with expectant smiles plastered on their faces.  Maker above, she wished they had at least died as husband and wife, joined in the eyes of the Maker. She wished they would at least be together in death, since their lives had been cut short so abruptly.

She and her babies – and the rest of them, for that matter- had escaped a grisly death by pure coincidence. She had this brief vision of Fenris in her head, standing by as their bodies, or what was left of them, was unearthed from amid the rumble. She remembered Elthina’s last look, softly apologetic over the heads of the people waiting in line in front of them, as Lily wailed in the Chantry. How many lives had been lost? How many people had felt the ground rumble from underneath their feet before that blinding explosion had engulfed them?

Sweet Andraste, she hoped their ends had been quick- and painless.

The world had been set on fire. She had no doubt of that, this was not something that could remain isolated, that could be contained within Kirkwall. The mages around Thedas would be pushed down with a ruthless hand. Tensions would rise and then crack, that was certain, as age-old resentments would reach a boiling point.

This was the beginning of a war. A war that would change the face of the world as they knew it.

‘The time to leap’, as Flemeth had once foretold, was upon them. Her stomach tightened. Back then, when Flemeth had looked at her with ancient, wise eyes and spoken her prophecies, she hadn’t cared. She’d had nothing to lose back then; freshly arrived in a hostile city, she’d had to struggle to make it through every day. But now...she had made a name for herself, she had a home, a family, three people she loved more than life itself.

Now that is was time to leap, she caught herself looking back at what it would deprive her of, and ached deep inside her. No matter how this battle turned out this day –and provided they all survived it- her life in this city was over. If  the mages won...it would be short-lived. The victors would never be able to withstand the might of the Templar Order, backed by the power of the Chantry, descending upon them. They would have to scatter, go underground until they could organize themselves into some semblance of a guerrilla army. And if the templars won...she would be dead.

Regardless, it was time to leap. She might be loathe to do it, but she had been given no other option.

Humph... What else was new.

Fenris’ hand tightened around hers. Al least she wouldn’t be doing it alone. She took a deep breath as the boat docked, and a frantic Orsino rushed out to greet them.

 _Never again alone_ , she thought as she saw Fenris leap gracefully over the prow. _Whether we live or die...we’ll be together._

She shot the fast-darkening sky a look, and sent a last prayer to a Maker that she wasn’t sure was listening.

 _Keep us safe,_ she pleaded. _Get us through this. Protect my children. Rose, Lily...my daughters...stay safe; I will return to you. And if I don’t...know that I love you._

She lowered her head, and jumped off the boat as well, taking one last deep breath to steady her nerves.

* * *

Me in a dress. How fucked up was that? I couldn’t wrap my head around it. The one time- _one time_ \- I wear a dress, the world comes to an end. Peachy.

By my aunt Petunia’s knickers...I didn’t want to die in dress. I didn’t want to die, period, but especially _not_ in a dress. I had a reputation to uphold. I could just see all the pirates and brigands laughing their asses off if I did; Captain Isabela, Pirate Queen, Scourge of the South Seas, dying in a frilly dress...gah. The shame. I’d die of it, if I weren’t dead already.

Good thing I didn’t wear petticoats too. My disgrace would have been complete.

We arrived at the Gallows, and I must admit...the situation looked more desperate than a pirate with blue balls and nowhere warm to stick his dick. We were underdressed- I was overdressed- and underequipped. I didn’t have my daggers – Spit and Hiss- and Merrill was missing her staff...and did I mention I was in a dress?

Zevran was at the Gallows, leaning that toned, lanky body of his against a column, his blond hair tied back in a ponytail. I loved that man’s hair, even back then...oh the things he _would_ do to you if you gave that hair a good yank. Zevran...I know, I know, I’m letting my mind drift here, but Zevran just did that to you- still does. It had been just a few days he’d been back in the city, and we had been busy reacquainting ourselves, if you get my drift.

I’m still pissed at him, because other than being in dress, he’d gotten me pregnant too, although at the time, I had no idea. Our sons, Luciano and Vincenzo, were born nine months later, and trust me...breastfeeding two babies? I can think of about a score of other far, _far_ better things to do with my tits, thank you very much.

The first thing the blighted assassin whoreson did was to laugh at me; and when I say laugh I mean gut-clenching-oh-my-freaking-Maker-that’s-so-funny-my-stomach-hurts laughing. I kicked him in the shin. I should have kicked him in square in the family jewels, that damned Antivan menace that he is, but he stopped laughing enough to drag me behind a pillar and kiss me fucking breathless. Have you ever been kissed by Zevran? Well... I will say one thing and thing only: he could make my head spin. He still does, blast his eyes.

No, really, have you ever been kissed by Zevran? Because I’ll neuter that bastard if you have.

But enough with this. Zevran offered us his services, and Hawke seemed relieved to accept it. I was worried for Hawke. She seemed tense to the point of breaking. I was just about to suggest that lanky elf of hers take her behind a pillar of their own and give her a nice knee-trembler, -because nothing takes tension away like a good quickie- but I knew it wouldn’t go over so very well. Ah, screw that, I did tell him so in the end, and he just glared at me.

Hawke gave us all our positions; in an act of chivalry that made my jaw drop to my tits, Meredith had given us time to prepare, not that it made me think of her less a bitch, but whatever... Hawke went from one of us to the next, telling us what she expected from us all, and giving a few words of encouragement.

Thankfully, Zevran –that’s my lover boy!- though to raid the abandoned stalls in the courtyard, and yes! I finally lost the dress. Found two nice daggers, too. And hey, I flashed all members present with my pirate booty but a prude I certainly am not. What was I supposed to do? Hide behind a sheet while I changed? Get real.

Ahh...that felt so much better. Nothing better than a few hundred strapping  males drooling over you to lift your spirits, even if they had those horrid hats on.  

Now, you will ask me what was I, Isabela, Pirate Queen of the South Seas doing there, preparing to fight in a battle that was not my own, and offered me no rewards whatsoever. I had nothing to gain from it, and lots to lose, true. Varric has asked me to write this (and I do have the sneaky suspicion he’s planning to put it in a book at some time in the future). It has been years since then...but I still remember standing in that fucked up place, waiting for the fucking templars to come on to us full force –and not in the good way, mind you- and thinking to myself that it was a mighty fine pickle I had landed myself in.

The Isabela of a few years back would have said “Screw this!”, flipped everyone present the bird and scrammed. But I didn’t. I didn’t want to. I know, I know... but strangers things are known to happen- not many, not often, but there you have it.

Why? Two reasons...the first is freedom. The mages deserved their freedom. Everyone deserves to be free; it’s not a right, it’s a duty. Be free, not let anything tie you down (unless whips and feathers are involved) and don’t take shit.  And second: Hawke. I had already betrayed her once, my sweet, sweet Hawke, and I was NOT going to do it again. This whole situation smelled more fishy than a pirate buggering a mermaid, but I wasn’t going to walk out on Hawke. Ever again. And that was final.

Hawke was more than a friend by then...she was my sister. I would have _died_ for that snippy little bitch.

But hey, you didn’t hear that from me.

 

* * *

Oh, what do I remember from that day...that’s a difficult one. I remember being terrified, of course, like ‘oh, Creators, we are all going to die’ terrified, but I was also hopeful. I had faith in Hawke...if anyone could pull it off, that was Hawke.

I remember that that place was stark- not a single green thing in sight- and that the stone was cold under my feet. I remember the smell, the acrid scent of scared humans sweating in their robes, and oh, that was not a good smell, trust me, the worst thing I have ever smelt was when Iralin burned the halla hair stores and...

I’m rambling, aren’t I? Sorry. I am told I have gotten better at not letting my mind drift over the years, but everybody rolls their eyes when they say it. I have no idea why...I try and keep focused on the conversation at hand and...and here I go again, rambling.

I had never understood all this...mess, with the templars and the mages. Among the People, the gift of magic is just that, a gift. Legend says that once, before the Creators left us, tricked by the Dread Wolf, all the People had it. Now, it is seen as a sign of favour from the gods, and _dalens_ with magic are cherished. I never understood why the _shemlen_ had to go and lock mages up, and treat them like this...certainly, magic is dangerous, the gift is a double-edged knife, but isn’t every talent like that? Can't all talents be used for both good and evil?

Call me naïve, but I will never understand the _shems_.

What else do I remember from that day...let me see. I remember my feet hurt, because I had steeped on glass, and Zevran wiggled his toes to me in his leather boots and made fun of me. Another mage, one of the healers that Hawke had asked to stay at the back during the battle and cast healing spells on us, took care of my injured foot and someone handed me a staff to fight with. I remember Isabela making all the males sigh and blush when she took off her dress in the middle of the place, and Zevran’s hungry look. Oh, I’m blushing now. I’ll stop talking about it, because it was so embarrassing, the way he...stopping, stopping. Sorry.

I remember Hawke’s expression, poor soul, how scared and tense she looked, and how determined. I remember going “awww” when Fenris ran his hand through her hair and leaned in to speak to her....And I’m blushing again. Sorry! I can’t help it. I never liked Fenris that way, honestly, but the man’s voice gave me gooseflesh, I think it gave everyone gooseflesh, it was not something you could fight. 

What I remember the most, though, was the look of despair and resignation on the First Enchanter’s face. As I stood there looking at him, I had this funny little feeling that something was off, like that little tingling you get at the back of your neck when a spider is just about to drop down from the ceiling in you, which I hated... I mean have you seen the size of the spiders...okay. I’ll stop rambling, I promise.

I told Hawke, and she gave the First Enchanter an intense look. She marched up to him, dragging me along, and asked him what was wrong. He laughed, as I recall, and said ‘everything’. The funny feeling of wrongness grew stronger- and suddenly it hit me.

“Blood magic,” I said, and Hawke’s blade was on Orsino’s throat in seconds.

“Orsino,” she hissed, “I hope to every god that ever existed you aren’t planning to go ‘Mawhahaha!’ on me and pull a demon out of your ass.”

He started protesting, giving me a dirty look, and then...silence. A pommel strike on the back of the head by Fenris, and Orsino crumbled like a rag doll.

“Problem solved,” he just said. He then exchanged a look with Hawke, she shrugged, and that was that. Oh, I know, you’ve all heard rumours and stories of how the First Enchanter of the Kirkwall Circle was a blood mage, and turned to an abomination out of despair during the battle of the Gallows...truth is, he was sleeping like a baby on a halla-hair blanket during the whole of the fight. After the fight, we turned him over to Cullen, and he did find evidence of blood magic. He was put to death, quietly, without protest...which was a shame, because he wasn't a bad man, and not all blood mages are evil, I am living proof of that...I have never hurt  a fly. Just a few spiders. And dragonlings. Alright, and a few wolves. But that’s it.

Wait...There might have been a few hundred raiders and Qunari as well, now that I think of it. But other than that, I’m harmless.

That story was what Cullen and Hawke agreed to spread, so that no side of the battle was without reproach...she’d hoped that making both sides look equally bad would stop the Battle of the Gallows escalating into a full blown mage-templar war. It didn't work, of course, but it was a good effort. Her intentions were good.

I have often been puzzled by _shemlen_ sayings, but that one that says that the road to the Void is paved with good intentions...

I get that one.

* * *

And there we were, ready to defend those mages in hopeless battle, against the templars. If someone had foretold me, years ago, that I would be standing there ready to lay down my life to preserve the lives of mages...it would be absurd beyond imagining.

My Hawke surely could lead me down strange paths, and I told her so. She laughed, and told me she would lead me down stranger ones yet.

There was a shadow of fear and despair in my gorgeous Hawke’s eyes, along with determination and stubborn pride. I had never been more proud of her; bleak odds put aside, she’d never conceded defeat, or surrendered a fight in her life, and she was not about to do so then.

Looking at her right then, as she went about organising our defences and positions, assigning each of her forces with that strategic genius she’d always possessed, I couldn’t help but wonder at the absurdity of life and the paths down which the fates led us; I would never have imagined myself a part of a relationship built on love. There I was, however...a father, a partner, a member of a family.

And all because of her. My beautiful, fierce Hawke, that never did anything in half-measures. She grieved fiercely, went through pain and suffering with intensity, raged and fought with all the ferocity of a High Dragon- but there was nothing she did more ferociously, more tenaciously, than love.

She returned to me and all other thoughts faded; the anger, the worry, the small amount of fear that was always present before a battle. All I could perceive was her: fierce feline eyes glinting, chin held stubbornly high, bowlike lips tightened in a do-or-die expression of resolve.

I had to tell her; I had already told her what she meant to me, and shown her more times than I could recall. But I had to tell her once more, that meeting her was the best thing that had ever happened to me. I had to beg her to promise not to die; my life would be unthinkable without her in it.

A kiss, I remember a kiss, as she made me promise back. A kiss like those that can change a man’s life. I think I heard whistles and catcalls, but I cannot be certain; all that existed for me was my Marian, my lovely Hawke. Her taste, her touch, her scent.

If I died that day, I remember thinking, it would have been worth it, just for the chance to have met her.

I looked into her eyes and realised how empty, how completely meaningless my life would be without her. I know not what another man would have done in my place at that moment- all I know was that there was overwhelming need inside me to be tied to her before- if- I died.

So I dropped on one knee, and asked her to marry me.

Merrill was the one that could perform any kind of ceremony; I did not care if it was Adrastian, Dalish, or tied to any other religion. We married there, in the Gallows courtyard, holding hands while Merrill recited words in an alien language that flowed gently and caressed our ears.

I saw you wiping tears that day, my friend Varric. Incidentally, I have no idea why you have asked me to write this, almost ten years after the events of that day, but allow me to remind you: if you are contemplating writing a book, the least Hawke will do to you will be to knit your chest hair into a hat, while it is still attached to your body. Beware.

So there it is, my account of what I remember. The battle was a blur. The business with Orsino is a vague memory. I was told that Meredith died at my hand- I care not for the specifics.

I married Hawke that day. Hawke deigned to take me as her husband, me, the man that had caused her pain, a lowly elven ex-slave that had nothing to his name other than his armour and his skill as a warrior.

That is all that is worth remembering.

* * *

That was it. Varric wiped his eyes secretly, hoping nobody had noticed, but a nudge by Isabela’s boot and Fenris’ little mocking smile as he and Hawke stood before them, their hands still joined, told him that there would be a bucketful of teasing coming his way after the battle- _if_ they survived.

Hawke stood in front of them, her eyes radiant, and looked at them one by one.

“Merrill,” she said, and the petite elf nodded. “Stay in the back. Attack from a distance and pay attention to the mages. I want no more surprises from them today. Stay out of the fight as much as you can.”

“I will,” she said, for once not rambling, not stuttering, calm and assured, a proud child of the People.

“Fenris,” she turned to the man that was still holding her hand. Her voice gentled. “Stay by my side, husband.”

“Always, wife,” he rumbled, and pulled her close with one gauntleted hand to kiss her once again.

“Varric, take vantage point. Find someplace high and let Bianca sing, my friend.”

“Better make it a little higher than usual,” Isabela couldn’t help but tease. “You are short, after all.”

Varric hoisted Bianca on his shoulder, and shooting Isabela a sideways annoyed look, he smiled at Hawke. “Bianca will take care of you, sweetness, no worries.”

She turned to the rogues. “Isabela, Zevran,” she sighed and rubbed her forehead. “Zevran, can you stop groping her for just a second?” The assassin smiled brightly and raised both hands in front of him.

“ _Scussa mi, bella_ ,” he drawled. “Isabela’s hind quarters are...distracting.”

“You two do what you do best: attack and evade. Stay in the shadows.”

They both nodded, rather enthusiastically,  and Hawke narrowed her eyes at them. “To fight. Not boink.”

“Spoilsport,” Isabela muttered.

A mage ran to them, pale and trembling. “Champion, they are coming.”

Hawke turned to the barred door and her eyes glinted. “Let them,” she growled, then raised her sword.

 Splinters of wood flew everywhere as the oaken door was broken down. The battle started with a roar of a templar, and a whoosh of a smite, draining the nearby mages. Hawke pushed everyone back, until her forces had control of a narrow passageway into the back of the Gallows main hall; the templars fell into her trap like baited fish. The plan had been to fall back and make the templars follow, until they had to squeeze through the narrow passageway- only a couple of them could go through each time.

Soon, those coming in had to step over the dead bodies of their comrades.  Not long after that and they had to climb over them.

It was a massacre. The templars kept coming, though, so they kept killing them. The stench of spilt blood and burned flesh filled the air, making their eyes burn and the back of their throats feel gritty. The mages stayed in the back, shaken by what had gone on with the First Enchanter, but  they followed Hawke’s instructions regardless: they rained fire and ice on the templars as they advanced, to their point that not many of them made it to where Fenris’ and Hawke’s blades were waiting for them. The sight of their fallen comrades was demoralising, and some of them threw their weapons down as soon as they made it through the carnage, begging for mercy. Isabela and Zevran dragged those few to the side, where they were knocked unconscious by stunt grenades and blows to the head.

The templars eventually pulled back, just when Orsino was waking up. He got up on wobbly legs, and took in the carnage with wide eyes. “Why do they not drown us at birth?” he wailed, “why let us hope?”

Another blow to the head, by Zevran this time, and he crumbled down once more. “I hate whiners,” he quipped to Hawke before shrugging and wiping his dagger on his leather trousers.

She shrugged back, then inspected her forces. Everyone looked winded, but not too much. In all, it had gone well.

She turned to the door, and drew in a deep breath. They would have to make a sortie now, and face the rest of the templar forces- and Meredith.

“This is it, people,” she addressed her comrades who had gathered behind her. “Let’s go.”

“ _Na via lerno victoria_ : Only the living know victory,” Fenris said. “That will be us, this day.” They exchanged one last look, and stormed the gates side by side.

* * *

Meredith was waiting in the courtyard of the Gallows, surrounded by the remaining of her templars forces. Cullen stood behind her, watching with a strange expression on his handsome face as Hawke and Fenris approached. It was the expression of a man caught between Duty and What was Right, and it did not seem pleasant.

“And here we are,” Meredith said, “at long last.”

Hawke gave her an intimidating glare. “I imagine you have wanted to get rid of me for quite some time,” she said. “Wait, scratch that,” she offered a fake bright smile. “I KNOW you have wanted to get rid of me for quite some time. Probably from the start.”

“Make that certainly,” Fenris spat, hate for the woman making his green eyes glint.

“You are no mage,” Meredith said, the ungodly glee on her face clearly visible to all by then, “but by deciding to defend them you have elected to share their fate.”

“Knight Commander,” Cullen stepped forward, “I thought we had agreed to only arrest the Champion.”

She turned those cold blue of hers to the blond templar. “You will do as I command, Cullen.”

“No,” Cullen stepped forward, his expression tightening into a determined scowl. “I defended you when Thrask started whispering you were mad. I stood by when you willingly betrayed the Champion,” -murmurs echoed around them at that-“siding with a deranged man and a blood mage to achieve your ambitions. I will stand to the side no more!” He looked around him, to the rest of his brethren. “This is too far. This has gone too far!”

“I WILL NOT ALLOW INSUBORINATION!” Meredith roared, unsheathing her sword and pointing it towards Cullen. “We must stay true to our path!”

A red gleam- malicious, evil- suffused the blade as soon as it slid out of its scabbard- Meredith turned to Hawke, her sword still held at the ready, vibrating with dark, sinister power. “You recognise it, do you not?” she sneered, and at that moment, with her face bathed in the red glow coming from the sword, they all saw it clearly: Meredith was not just a vicious bitch that struggled to further her own agenda. She was mad- driven crazy by the idol lyrium she had embedded in her sword, just as unhinged as Bartrand had been. “Pure Lyrium,” she said, caressing the blade that hummed in barely leashed fury under her touch. “Taken straight out of the Deep Roads. The dwarf asked for a king’s ransom for his prize.”

 “Well,” Varric said. “If ever there was a moment for all of us to go ‘oh, shit,’ this is it.”

Hawke didn't even flinch. “Turning the lyrium idol into a fancy sword won’t save you, Meredith,” she said as if talking to a petulant child.

“All of you!” Meredith pointed the sword in a circle around her, failing to see in her madness how even her own people cringed away from the malevolent aura the weapon gave off. “I want her dead!”

“ENOUGH!” Cullen stepped forward again, quiet conviction and resolve in his stance and expression. “This is not what the Order stands for. Knight Commander, STEP DOWN! I relieve you of your command.”

Meredith looked shattered for a moment. “My own Knight Captain falls prey to the influence of blood magic,” she said. She turned in a circle, pointing the sword at her own men, raving. “You all have! You’re all weak! Allowing the mages to control your minds, to turn you against me.”

“And the cuckoo has left the nest,” Varric mumbled.

“But I don’t need any of you!” Meredith turned to Hawke, her face distorted into a grimace of rage and madness, “I will protect this city myself.”

Cullen drew his sword, and stepped in front of Hawke. “You’ll have to go through me,” he said.

“Idiot boy,” she sneered, her voice cracking. The red glow from the sword increased tenfold, and engulfed her as well, making her eyes turn red, like that of a demon. “Then you will die! Just like the rest of them!”

And with that, the final battle started.

* * *

_And what a battle it was my faithful readers..what a battle it was. To this day, I wonder how we made it out alive._

_Meredith slammed that sword of her into the ground, and cried out “Blessed are those who stand before the wicked and the corrupted, an do not falter!”_

_To this day, hearing that particular verse of the Chant gives me the hibbie-jibbies._

_At some point, the damned sword turned all those freaking humongous statues in the Gallows Courtyard alive. Yes, you heard me. Alive. There were more than ten of them, let me remind you, huge bronze statues, that suddenly descended from their pedestals and attacked us. I don’t know how, don’t ask me. All I know was that damned lyrium idol seemed to have  enough power inside it to bring down the Maker himself. We never learned who had made it, how or why...and we never asked; we were just glad it was gone -good riddance._

_Let me hear a Hail Andraste, here._

_As for the clearly madder-than-a-spring-hare Knight Commander? Hawke got cornered by one of those huge statues at some point, and she slipped on a puddle of blood. She went down on one knee, and Meredith found the chance to attack her, raising that sinister sword to deliver a blow that would end Hawke’s life then and there._

_But Fenris, true to his word, was by her side. He stepped in, his own sword clashing with Meredith’s. Blue light erupted and clashed with red; two faces, one with burning green eyes and the other with the red eyes of a demon, bore into each other as the blades clashed and each warrior put their entire weight behind their blow._

_Fenris’ sword shattered, and the momentum drove Meredith forward; another blue flash, as Fenris fist went through her chest._

_And Meredith was dead._

_Let me hear you say “good riddance!”._

_Fenris turned back, to see a figure bent over Hawke, his hands glowing blue. Anders turned his head, nodded to him, then stepped away and disappeared behind a column; nobody saw hair nor hide of him until almost nine months later, when Hawke was in labour._

_An aside here: I think he kept tabs on us, somehow. I think that he realised Hawke was pregnant at that moment, when he had snuck into the Gallows to help, despite her wishes. He definitely knew when to come and where to find us. I suspected Isabela or Aveline might have tipped him off to our location._

_The sword...Broody hadn't even thrown that bitch’s black heart down, when the damned thing shattered. Red lyrium spread around her like a blood red cloud, then settled on her, fusing itself with her armour and then her flesh. Her final sound was a scream, as she looked down on the gaping hole in her chest and the lyrium burned her alive, turning her into a grotesque statue of burned flesh, metal and corrupted lyrium merged together._

_Cullen and his templars circled us, and then Cullen waved and their swords lowered. Good thing too. I don’t think any of us was excited for ANOTHER fight. And frankly...those templars had a look that approached awe as they looked at Hawke. If she went “BOO!”, they’d brown their skirts, take it from me._

_Cullen nodded- solemnly, respectfully._

_She gave him one last look before turning on her heel and walking away. Later that night, we all had a clandestine meeting in her home, where a lot of things were decided: Cullen would step up to become acting Knight Commander. Orsino would be put to death. Even the story of the First Enchanter’s one-way trip down Abomination Avenue was fabricated, in the vain hope that if both sides were monsters a war could be avoided._

_No use. The world erupted into chaos. Circles around Thedas rose up. More templars were sent  to Kirkwall to try and put the situation under control._

_By then, we were all gone. We vanished into the hills, and no one in Kirkwall ever saw most of us again. Rivaini had a ship and we wandered around for a few months, only docking for supplies and news; the templars also rebelled, after a while, and the Chantry lost control of the Circles. The Seekers came out, and – oh, what shock!-they were looking for Hawke, so I went back to Kirkwall, to throw them off our tracks, and Aveline and Donnic went to Orlais. Merrill made for Antiva, where another clan was willing to take her in. By that time, it had become apparent that both Hawke and Isabela were pregnant, so we needed a place to stay._

_Rivain, with its anarchist and mind-your-own-business attitude was perfect. We had a little fun along the way, mainly trying to keep Zevran from bolting, because at the first mention of a baby he turned greener than grass....Haha. He took to fatherhood like a duck to...tar, that man, and Isabela’s hormonal tantrums didn't help. Funny though... they never married, but up to few years ago, when they were both lost at sea in a shipwreck, they remained together._

_Now...it’s just me that’s left, and my friends’ children, that ended up marrying each other. I think I’ve mentioned it before, but Zevran and Isabela, the two most promiscuous people on the face of all Thedas, produced children that were perfect little angels. Hawke and Fenris’ daughters were hellions; Lily as always led, and Rose followed. When they hit puberty and discovered boys...well...Fenris’ hair had been white already. It couldn’t get any worse. He spent his little girls’ teenage years scaring prospective suitors shitless, telling them in minute detail what he would do to their entrails if they dared lay a finger on his daughters. But, all wild things eventually settle down...and when the Hawke brood did, it was with the Arainai twins._

_Those boys are devilishly handsome, but damn me if they aren’t as dull as dishwater. Well, the girls are happy, so that’s what matters._

_And then...one day, Hawke went out in the pouring rain to help Fenris lead their stubborn, mulish horse to the stable. The next day she was coughing a bit, nothing much, but it did get worse. By day three, the cough had turned into a dry, wracking cough, that made her whole frame vibrate. She started having difficulty breathing...and by morning she was dead. Just like that...After all we had all gone through, after all the battles and the fighting. A damned illness... She was gone, just like that._

_It was so unexpected, so out of the freaking blue, that we were all left in shock. Fenris had stood by their bed, holding her hand, seemingly not even breathing. He murmured to me to go tell the children, and I had to walk the short distance to Rose’s and Lily’s houses and wake them up in the middle of the night with the news of their mother’s death. Leto had been studying with an elderly mage we knew, studying to be a healer; wasn't it ironic?_

_Three days later, after settling all his affairs and leaving me a long letter with his final requests, Fenris took his own life._

_And now I’m the only one left. Aveline and Donnic died long ago in Orlais, serving in the Guard. Merrill’s tracks have long ago disappeared. Isabela and Zevran were lost at sea. Anders had been the first to go, when the Calling was upon him._

_I am the only one left._

_And since there is nobody around to stop me, I decided to write this book. Ha! Take that, all of you! Leave me all alone, will you? Ha. I get the last laugh. Haha._

_Haha..._

_Ah, who am I trying to convince? Nug shit, I say._

_I am the last one left._

_And it sucks._

 


	51. Chapter 51

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are, at the last cha[ter of this story. A million thanks to all that have read and taken the time to comment or send kudos! Love you all!

_And just like that, my friends, this tale is done. I have no more to say- no, scratch that, I have plenty more to say, but I won’t. I am tempted to keep on writing, to go on narrating to you, to tell you the whole tale of what happened afterwards; the mage-templar war, the crumbling of the Chantry and of life as we knew it. A new world started emerging that day; we were just at the beginning of the labour pangs that would bring it forth and –trust me- no birth is comfortable and without anguish._

Varric sighed, then dipped his quill into the inkpot again, looking out of the window and into the rapidly fading afternoon sun. He patted his now completely white chest hair out of habit, before  letting out another bone-weary sigh and doing what he knew best- putting ink to paper.

 _I am an old man,_ he wrote, _and I’m tired, my friends, weary down to my sturdy dwarven soul. I have lived to see all my friends either pass away or disappear, never to be seen again. I have seen the world’s fabric being torn asunder and rewoven from the tattered remains of society as we knew it. I have seen kingdoms crumble, empires being brought to their knees, faiths transmute, magic come back. I lived to see what that blasted witch warned us about back then; I watched the change on whose precipice we had been standing come and go. When time came for Hawke to leap, as she had been forewarned, I was right there alongside of her, and didn’t hesitate to leap right along with her._

_I don’t know if it was for the best or not, but I do know that we were happy. We found this little corner of the world to call our own, and when the storm broke, we fought to defend it, to preserve all that was worthy against the tides of change. But we were happy. I was happy. Little did I know, back then on that fateful day when I first met Hawke, that I was meeting the one person that I would never hesitate to follow, even to the Void itself. Hawke was like that, she evoked devotion so strong, so potent, that from the moment you tied your fate to hers, you **were** hers. Those of us lucky enough to be considered her own could never leave her, not completely. She was one of those people that left an everlasting stamp of her presence behind: Beware. This is Hawke’s. She will die protecting it. _

_I loved Hawke. I loved her like I never loved anyone else, be it female or male. I didn’t even love my Bianca like I did her. I guess...that’s why I never married, because Hawke needed me in her life as a friend, and that, my readers, was that. Her best, more beloved friend was all I was capable of being from there on._

_I loved Fenris- that angsty porcupine of an elf- too. I loved him like I would love a brother- a real brother, not the asswipe my parents graced me with. I loved him like a friend, like a son, like...like Fenris. It was impossible not to love him; broody, opinionated, reserved bloody bastard that he was. Once you got past all that, and saw the real Fenris underneath, it was not possible to dislike that blighter; he had the most unending capacity for love and loyalty, and once you tapped into that, you were hooked._

_I have a bone to pick with that blasted nug-humping asshole once I see him again, because nothing hurt as much as when he took his own life, determined that nothing- not even death itself- would keep him from his Hawke. Sure, Hawke’s passing was painful too, but he left us all –he left me- out of his own choice. That hurt. He thought of nothing and no one- not his friends, not even his children. And surprisingly, his children understood completely. I, on the other hand, was pissed with him for the longest time._

_I never claimed I wasn’t a selfish bastard, and losing them both at the same time was a blow. I felt personally offended that they both left me. Truth be told, though, after some time my anger died out, and now I can say I understand. I was there, after all. I saw their life together, I witnessed it firsthand. I saw their love blossom and bloom and  fill the world with such heavenly aroma, that I can still feel it all around me, like a worm cocoon of love and want and total togetherness that completely transcended time. If it had been me in his shoes, I freely admit it now, I would have followed the woman that I breathed and lived for as well._

_So I won’t go on with my tale, my faithful readers. What’s the purpose of that? I won’t tell you of the years of happiness that followed- what’s the point? My point has been made. If I may borrow a page out of that elf’s book and use a flower analogy (it **is** fitting, after all) I will say this: some times, amid brambles and thorns and weeds, flowers bloom that take your breath away with their loveliness. And it is because they struggle so much to overcome the adversities of the ground they grew on that they become so resilient; their scent becomes more potent, their colour more blinding. We, the silly little insects that revolve around them, can only feel blessed to have found them and to have been allowed to sit on their petals and drink of their nectar. _

_What, did you think only that blasted elf could wax poetically and use flower analogies and such shit? I’ll have you know that I have the soul of a poet, my friends, underneath this hard dwarven exterior._

_So, this tale is done. I have told the truth –for once- and kept nothing back, even when it was painful. I hope this tale has taught you a thing or two about love, and strength, and the power of forgiveness. If you are a woman, take care of your man, and have faith in love and life; it won’t let you down. If you are a man...go buy your woman some flowers, and try not to be a complete jackass. You probably will- and quite often too- just try not to overdo it._

_Thank you for reading, my friends._

_Oh, yes, and nug shit. I can’t close this book without saying it one last time. I am old, I am tired, my bones ache, my heart does so too. I am not the dwarf I used to be, and I will freely admit it: loneliness sucks. Big time. So nug shit to all that, and a finger raised to the Ripper, for making me wait so long...I miss my family, you nug-humping asswipe._

_Come take me, already._

The book was slammed shut –for the last time- and Varric leant back into his sturdy chair, and rolled his stiff shoulders, his neck creaking like an old door. He looked out the window again, to the solitary tree standing above the flower-covered patch of earth that spread over his friends’ ashes final resting place. He slowly got up and grabbed his walking stick; his bones, these days, ached so much that he was often unable to walk the short distance between his desk and his bed unassisted. But today, he was feeling like a walk, he was feeling the urge to go visit his friends and tell them of the book he had just finished.

Chuckling softly to himself –Hawke would be livid if she knew he had read their journals and written this book- he slowly, painfully, made his way out the door and up the winding path to the small hill.

That is where her daughters, Rose and Lily, found him hours later, dead under the tree.

They stood over him for a while, tears streaming down their face, but comforted by his expression. A soft, happy smile could be seen on his face, and the two women each thought to herself that Varric looked as if he was welcoming a long lost friend that had finally come to visit. Sniffling softly at the loss of their beloved uncle Varric, they comforted themselves and each other with the thought that perhaps Varric was already with their parents, and that the old group was once more complete.

Leto was informed and he made the dangerous trip to pay his last respects to the man that could always make him laugh like no other could. He stood still over the place where they had scattered his ashes, right next to his parents’. Before the handsome dark-haired half-elf left, he knelt on the soft ground, and planted the seed for another flower; there were roses, lilies, yellow carnations there, all the flowers that his parents had ever used instead of words.

The new flower was an iris, which stood for ‘your friendship means so much to me’.

He lifted his face to the soft wind, and for a moment, he thought he heard laughter and the joyous voices of reunited friends. He smiled, then picked up his staff and disappeared into the night.

 

* * *

 

“You infernal vertically-challenged piece of dwarven excrement,” Varric heard a familiar voice through the thick fog that had suddenly enveloped the hill he had fallen asleep on. “What in damnation took you so long?”

Varric’s eyes blew wide in surprise. “Fenris?” he stuttered, his breath catching in his throat as a solitary figure emerged from inside the mist. “Is it really you?” He blinked, then looked around him and caught sight of his own aged body, laying by the roots of the tree, still as a statue. “Am I dead?”

“As the proverbial doornail,” Fenris broke through the mist, as young and strong as he had been the day Varric had first met him, his green eyes twinkling. Varric took slow stock of his friend, then looked down to his own self. His chest hair was dark again, and he felt just as young as the elf, the burden of the long years of his life having lifted from his sagging shoulders.

“What is going on?” he patted his own body. “Why am I young again? How did you get here?”

Another voice sounded from further down the hill, coming closer by the minute. “Andraste’s knickerweasels, Varric, you still talk too much.”

“Anders??” Varric’s eyes widened even more.

“At least he’s not bawling his eyes out, like a certain mage we know,” Fenris offered with his usual sneer.

“Tell me about it,” a feminine, sultry voice chuckled. “When we found him, he thought I was a desire demon.”

“You are,” Fenris deadpanned. “Or the closest thing to one, at the very least.”

“Isabela?” Varric’s shock deepened even more. “You here too, Rivaini? Where’s Hawke?”

Isabela appeared through the mist, as young and beautiful as she had been the day Varric had first seen her, and dressed with something that would have made her old pirate costume look modest and demure.

“You like?” she did a little twirl, showing off her barely-there clothes; a transparent, see through skirt and a set of chains that did nothing to cover up her assets. “I stole it right off a desire demon. Looks better on me, doesn’t it?”

Before Varric had a chance to respond, Merrill burst through the thick fog, and she launched herself at him, talking a mile a minute, petting his chest hair and turning him this way and that, commending on how young he looked, and how glad she was to see him, and “Oh, Bianca is here too.”

Varric turned his head around, and sure as daylight, Bianca’s familiar weight was on his back, her stock well polished and smooth; that drove the point home. He was dead -this was not a dream- and his friends were here with him. Bianca had been broken years ago, and try as he might, Varric hadn’t been able to fix her. But here she was, as beautiful and deadly as ever- so he had to be dead, and this had to be heaven of some kind.

It sure felt like it.

Merrill was blabbering again and he tried hard to focus, as his eyes and ears were focused to the mist at the foot of the hill, expecting to see a curvy figure and two feline eyes coming his way.

“...and Zevran is here, of course, and Donnic and Aveline. Oh, Bethany too, and we met Hawke’s brother, Carver. Have you met Carver? He’s...handsome.”

Varric’s eyebrows shot up at that and he was just about to tease Merrill about her breathless appraisal of Hawke’s brother, when another familiar figure broke through the  mist. A huge smile spread in Varric’s face. He’d recognise those feathers anywhere.

“I will have you know that I despise the comments about my excusable panic at my demise,” Anders approached, a miffed expression on his face. “None of you died with darkspawn nipping at your heels. And none of you became a snack for them afterwards. So I was crying like a babe when you guys found me; so what? I had been dead for ages, and all alone.”

Feeling a sense of peace and acceptance, along with overwhelming joy settling inside him, Varric didn't even have to think twice before slipping into his old role of group tease. “My heart bleeds for you, Blondie. Oh, wait...no it doesn’t. I’m dead. So sorry, no sympathy for your woes, oh bravest of the brave Grey Wardens.”

Fenris snickered then laid a hand on Varric’s shoulder. “I’ve missed you, old friend. What kept you so long? Hawke and I have been expecting you for years.”

“Where is Hawke, by the way?” Varric looked around, then smiled up at Fenris. “I had things to do, Elf. I had to finish the book I was writing.”

“Oh, what book? Is there smut in it?” Isabela perked up.

“A tad,” Varric nodded. “It was about Fenris and Hawke, after all.”

“WHAT???” another feminine voice bellowed from inside the mist. “Varric! I’ll kill you!”

A slow smile spread on the dwarf’s face, even at the face of Hawke’s temper. “I’m already dead, Hawke.”

“You blasted dwarf! That doesn’t mean I can’t hurt you!”

The smile died, as Varric looked to the faces around him, that were nodding affirmatively. “She can? Really? Oh. Nug shit.”

And he started running.

 

 

The end.

 


End file.
